


It Was The Boredom

by 221Bme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Cutting, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:23:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 79
Words: 80,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1202725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Bme/pseuds/221Bme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock struggles not to let his other addictions get the best of him, and John misjudges a cold. (Warning: self harm fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Never Easy to Refuse

It was the boredom.

The intensity of it.

Bored.

Sherlock desperately needed a distraction, something to take his mind off the incessant craving that was eating him alive—but he'd exhausted all his options.

He knew that.

The only thing keeping him still now was John, seated across from him, calmly reading in the armchair. Sherlock watched him flip the page as if nothing was wrong.

And it wasn't.

But it was.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. His nails were digging into his palms as he attempted to push the urge back down, but it kept coming back to the forefront of his mind. His skin crawled and the old scars on his arms itched with a painful longing that was becoming more and more difficult to ignore. He bit his lip and tried to focus on the latest case he'd heard about.

Lestrade hadn't come to him about it, but that was likely because they hadn't realized it was too complicated for them yet. They would, eventually, and then perhaps he could immerse himself in solving it and just for a moment he might forget--

"Sherlock?"

His consciousness came flashing back to the living room at the sound of John's voice. He blinked. "What?"

"I've said your name twice now." John had shut the book in his lap and was looking at him with a look akin to worry. But no, it couldn't be that.

"I was thinking. Busy. Case."

"I didn't think you had a case." John slid a bookmark between the pages of his book and set it on the floor by his chair.

"Well, not yet, but I expect I'll be getting one soon. It should prove to be interesting enough."

"It had better be. I can tell you're getting antsy here with nothing to do." Ah, so that had been it. John was worried that Sherlock would be disagreeable, and unpleasant to deal with. Of course.

Sherlock leaned back and rolled over on the couch, discreetly scratching at the scars through the fabric of his dressing gown, though it didn't do much good. It might have made it worse.

The icy steel blade slid its way into his thoughts and made him shiver inwardly and lick his lips. It seemed too much of an effort to push it away, to decide against it. It wouldn't let him if he'd tried.

If only he were alone in the room, if only John would leave so he could have some peace and quiet, and an opportunity to make the craving stop. To relieve the need that pulled at him like a riptide, never really ceasing but coming and going in waves that he could sometimes control and other times not. But if John left--

He became aware of a presence above him, and glanced back. John was standing over him with his arms crossed in an annoyingly motherly sort of way.

"What do you want?" Sherlock didn't bother to keep the growl out of his voice. It was too much to bother with.

"I'm just wondering if you're alright. You're being more... Sherlock than usual."

He laughed harshly. "What is that supposed to mean?"

So this identified him. Of course it did. It WAS him. It consumed him.

"Uh..." John seemed to realize the oddity of his words. "I mean... You're more out of it. And something's got you bothered."

"I don't get BOTHERED, John. Nothing bothers me, I don't have time for anything except work." Even as he hissed these words he felt his thoughts reverting back to IT, and his voice lost emphasis on the last syllables.

If John noticed, he didn't say anything.

"I know, I know. Work." John shrugged heavily and turned to go upstairs. "I'm going to bed. Call if you need me."

"Why-ever would I need you?" Sherlock rolled back over and waved a hand dismissively.

The stairs creaked as John disappeared upstairs and he was finally alone.

Alone.

Sherlock sat up slowly. He wasn't honestly sure if he wanted to do it. But that had no bearing; even if he tried to resist he couldn't do it. He had to give in.

He got his feet and paused there by the coffee table, taking in the room, judging the silence to be sure John wasn't coming back downstairs any time soon.

Only when he was satisfied that everything was safe did he step purposely across the living room and seek out his little hiding spot behind the grate in the fireplace. He removed a small wooden box and brought it back to the couch with him. Flipping open the locks, he paused again to savor the calm.

This would be his last chance to choose not to.

Maybe....

Sherlock swallowed and took a deep breath. The need was welling up within him again, drowning his better judgment and choking out any thoughts to the contrary.

Addiction was never easy to refuse.

 

 

+++++++++

 

John stifled a yawn as he came downstairs. He had risen early out of habit, even though today was Sunday and he didn't have to go to work at the clinic.

He had lain in bed for a while before deciding it was no use trying to go back to sleep and gotten up.

The light was on downstairs, which wasn't surprising. Sherlock probably hadn't slept at all.

John shook his head tiredly and went to the kitchen to start the coffee. It was only when he heard a quiet groan that he realized Sherlock must still be downstairs, but he'd been so still he hadn't noticed him.

"Sherlock?" He put down the spoon he was holding and walked back out into the living room.

John's brow furrowed when he found him sitting on the floor, leaning against the armchair. He noted that Sherlock seemed paler than usual, and when he laid a hand across his forehead he found it to be cool to the touch.

Sherlock scowled and tried to push his hands away, but didn't have the energy. He blinked drowsily and shook his head. "‘M fine..."

"You're not fine, obviously. I'm not completely stupid. Are you sick?" John's mind immediately went into doctor mode and he skimmed through his prior knowledge of conditions with these symptoms. He came up with a few, one of which was blood loss, but he skipped over that one because Sherlock had no apparent wounds. And besides, he'd tell him if he did.

 

++++++++++

 

"You're not well. Come on, let's get you to bed, alright?"

John was speaking, but it sounded slow and far away. Not important.

So Sherlock only shook his head and did his best to stay right where he was, because here was comfortable enough and if he moved his head might start swimming again and the room would be covered in black spots--but now John had knelt and wrapped his arms around him and had hoisted him up to his feet, with considerable effort.

A searing pain flashed behind his eyes and he tried to kick back, but the spots threatened to invade his vision again and he quieted.

John dragged him into his bedroom and heaved him onto the bed as carefully as he could. Sherlock lay there feeling jarred and sluggish, trying to force his limbs to find the energy to sit up and tell John off for being such an overprotective nag, but he couldn't.

Strange.

He'd managed fine the night before, and gotten everything cleaned up nicely.

Very nicely. Clever of him.

But now he just felt tired and heavy and slow. The slowness was painful, it was frustrating and excruciatingly limiting, though not half as excruciating as the headache that was starting behind his left temple.

"Any nausea?" John was asking him a question, pushing for an answer, expecting one.

Sherlock parted his lips and summoned his most normal, unaffected voice. "A little."

He was surprised at how small and croaky he sounded... Not at all the unaffected sound he was going for.

John pursed his lips and frowned. "You don't sound too good, either. Any coughing? No? Hmm." He thought for a minute. "I'll get you a cup of tea, maybe that'll help a little."

Sherlock was too tired to respond as John went out the door and left him alone again in the quiet room.

Should he tell him?

_Tell him what, exactly, Sherlock? This might not have anything to do with what you did to yourself last night. In fact, it probably doesn't. Maybe you really are just sick. A cold, perhaps._

Sherlock didn't get colds.

He stared up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the conflicting thoughts spinning in his head. He'd never had a problem making sense before...

The door opened again and John came back in with a steaming mug of tea and a plate of something that the doctor confirmed to be toast. He set it on the bedside table.

"How are you feeling?"

Sherlock considered for a moment and decided to go along with whatever illness John decided he was suffering from. "Poorly."

He nodded. "Drink your tea, if you can." He noticed Sherlock hadn't moved.  "Do you need help?"

"Of course not. I'm fine." Sherlock snarled and forced himself to sit up--which immediately proved to be a bad decision as the room swam in and out of darkness and it felt as though the devil himself were crushing his head with a boot heel.

John watched with a concerned look that Sherlock barely noticed. He laid his hand on his forehead again. "Still cool... Sherlock, I'm getting a bit worried. I know you're going to hate me for it, but maybe I should call the hospital."

 


	2. Not Sick

 

Sherlock made himself open his eyes and focused on John as well as he could with an intense glare. "No. I'm fine, I just need rest, that's entirely out of the question. Don't be stupid, John."

He could not go to a hospital. If he did, they would invariably discover everything, and then everything would be horrible. He'd be forced to stop the only thing that helped now, and he'd be treated like a child and they'd all regard him as a sad little freak and John would be disappointed.

John.

He might be so uncomfortable with it he'd leave.

Sherlock could NOT go to a hospital.

John sighed. "Sherlock..." He sat on the edge of the bed, making it clear he wasn't going to be leaving anytime soon. "Will you at least answer a few questions for me?"

He would have to take the silence for a yes.

"Alright... First of all, have you eaten anything recently?"

"Yesterday, the toast you crammed down my throat."

"I didn't cram it down your throat! I just can't let you go that long between meals!" John stopped to compose himself again. No use getting worked up. "Fine.

How about anything to drink?"

"Tea, last night."

"Any chills? Headaches?"

"Yes, and yes."

"When did all this start?"

Sherlock hesitated. The truth was going to sound odd. "...Two o'clock this morning."

Expectedly, John frowned in thought. "That's sudden. It's only six now, and you already look awful. Sorry." He gave him an apologetic shrug in response to the daggers Sherlock was glaring at him.

He normally wouldn't have put up with so much bad temper from his flatmate, but he could tell Sherlock was in a bad spot and knew from experience as a doctor that patients can get snappy when they're hurting.

He got up from the bed and went to get a thermometer, coming back to stand by Sherlock's head. "Open up."

Sherlock pressed his lips together and refused to look at him. He had no intention of doing anything so pointless and futile as to--

He let out a sound of surprise as John took him by the chin firmly and wrenched his jaw open just enough to get the thermometer in. John's own jaw was set in determination, and he seemed to have gone into full doctor mode. "Look, I'm sorry, but you're being childish."

Sherlock's eyes widened in fury and he tried to pull back, but John held on tightly. At no other point in time would he have let himself be manhandled the way John was doing, but there wasn't much he could do about it other than shoot him death glares and make feeble attempts to turn his head away.

At last the thermometer beeped and John removed it and let go of him. He inspected the readout critically. "35C... Sherlock, that's low."

"What, not good?" He scoffed, still trying to regain his composure after being held against his will.

John sighed heavily and scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah... A bit not good. Especially since it came on so suddenly. I'm starting to think about calling the hospital again, honestly."

No.

No, no, no.

Sherlock's brain went into high gear, searching desperately for another excuse, a different approach, something that would convince John. Anything. But what?

"If you do that I'll never speak to you again." Where had that come from? It was ridiculous and he knew it. It wasn't going to convince John of anything, and he knew that too. It had just slipped out.

"I know you hate hospitals, but I'm getting worried. You're ill and I don't know what's wrong. Won't you at least humor me? Maybe they can help you feel better."

He bit back the derisive laugh in his throat and rolled his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Them, make him feel better? Honestly.

John reached out and took his wrist to check his pulse, but he hadn't anticipated the detective's immediate, violent reaction to the touch. He frowned as Sherlock drew his arm back with a hiss and curled into himself on the blankets.

"The hell? I'm just trying to take your pulse, no need to be so defensive."

"My pulse is fine."

"Oh? Then let me check it." John wasn't letting this one go so easily. He was clearly still being just as stubborn as he'd been a few minutes ago.

Seeing no way around it, Sherlock slowly held out his left arm. He'd bandaged the very bad cuts the night before, so there wouldn't be any bleed-through, and his sleeves were long enough to cover everything. With any luck, John would only touch his wrist, which was still clean and smooth, like untouched snow. He probably wouldn't notice a thing. Clueless John.

Unbidden anger suddenly welled up in him and he bit his cheek to keep a straight face.

How could John not notice? How could he let this go on like it had? Didn't he care? Wasn't it obvious?

But no, it wasn't obvious. Sherlock himself had gone to great lengths to make SURE John stayed in the dark about it. It wasn't his fault he didn't know.

But that didn't automatically mean he cared.

John laid two fingers on the underside of his wrist carefully and left them there for much longer than Sherlock would have liked. "Hmm... It's faster than it should be." His brow furrowed, not removing his hand. "Okay, something's really not right. I'm making the call."

Sherlock sat up quickly, forgetting what happened last time in his haste. But even through the dizziness he felt it, felt John's fingers brush over an old scar, as his arm moved when he sat up, and could only hope John hadn't felt it too.

"What was that?"

Damn it.

"What was what?" Sherlock made it a point to keep his voice as nonchalant as he could make it. 

"Something on your arm. I touched it." John's eyes had narrowed. He might as well have said it out loud: 'I think you know exactly what I'm talking about.'

 

++++++++++++

 

At John's words Sherlock had instantly shut down, stopped responding, and seemed determined to at least pretend he was asleep.

John bit his lip. He knew trying to talk to him now would get him nowhere, but he didn't want to let this go. He might just be paranoid, but he had a bad feeling about all this. If being a doctor had taught him anything, it was how to pay attention to your patients. And now something didn't add up.

Sherlock hated hospitals, hated being fawned over and cared for, but something was obviously very wrong now. Low body temperature, dizziness, fast pulse, pale skin, nausea... John was almost certain his friend would have enough common sense to let himself be taken care of this once, when he needed it.

But Sherlock was still resisting.

Why?

And not to mention what he'd felt on his arm. John knew a scar when he touched one, thanks to military and medical training. It might just be a token from one of the many dangerous situations Sherlock got himself into, but then why was he being defensive?

Maybe he could use Sherlock's resistance to his advantage....

"Alright. You seem to know what's going on, and I obviously don't." He slid off the bed and stood up, crossing his arms over his chest. "Here's the deal: I'm going to call the hospital, and they can tell me what's wrong, or you can do it here on your own terms. Your choice."

"Bastard..." Sherlock didn't open his eyes, and John didn't move.

"So that's a no? I should call?" He took his mobile from his pocket and unlocked it.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes, but he still looked up at the ceiling instead of at him. "No--don't."

John waited expectantly, knowing he had to handle this carefully or Sherlock would close down again and he'd be right back where he started. "Alright, I'm listening."

There was silence for a long minute.

"I . . ." Sherlock hesitated, sighing. "Blood. It's blood loss."

Everything clicked together in John's mind, all the symptoms made sense, except for one thing--how?

Sherlock didn't appear to be about to clear that up. He seemed to be waiting to see if John had figured it out himself. He hadn't, obviously. He expected too much of him, John thought with mild annoyance.

"Are you going to tell me...?" He ventured carefully.

"No." The reply was blunt and decisive.

He pursed his lips and turned back to his mobile. He punched in the hospital's number. "Fine then..."

"Wait--" Sherlock had sat up again, looking vaguely panicked. "Don't. I'll tell you. Just don't."

John raised an eyebrow.

He went back over to the bed and stood there a moment before he took a seat on the edge, beside Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock leaned back against the headboard in silence. He opened his mouth as though he were going to say something, then shut it again.

John was feeling more and more confused, and more than a little worried; the detective was never this indecisive or hesitant about anything. Ever.

So why now?

And how had he gotten hurt?

Why hadn't he said something?

"John." Sherlock's low voice broke through his thoughts. He looked up, and was startled by the look on Sherlock's face. He appeared genuinely distraught, even pained.

"Er..." He faltered again. "It isn't logical... It won't make sense..."

"Sherlock, what are you--"

He only shook his head and brought his arms up, pausing with the edge of his sleeve in his fingers, as if trying to steel himself against something. Then he slowly pulled it up to his elbow.

John's blood chilled as his eyes traveled up the pale arm, past the untouched wrist and then up over the countless white scars that decorated Sherlock's skin, lay over with newer ones, some very recent and still red and angry. Halfway up his arm the bandages started, sloppily done and already soaked through with scarlet.

It felt as though the bottom had dropped out of John's stomach. He felt sick.

He didn't want to know exactly what this was. But he did. He knew.

He'd just never thought...

Sherlock quickly pulled the sleeve back down, taking his silence and pallor for revulsion. He turned away in an attempt to curl in on himself again, to shut him out. But John quickly leaned forward and took him by the wrist firmly. He pulled the sleeve back up and knelt on the blankets in front of him, examining the damage carefully, every cut, every line.

At last he choked out, "For how long...?"

Sherlock lowered his eyes. "...A year. It's... an old habit I went back to."

John looked at him and breathed, "Why?"

He fell silent again.

"Sherlock please--" He barely noticed how tight his grip on Sherlock's wrist had become, and only when the other man winced quietly did he become aware and relent slightly. "Sorry... Just... Why? Why would you do this?"

 


	3. Help?

"I was bored, John."

The answer caught him off guard, like a slap in the face.

"Sherlock, you were not just BORED! Don't even try to tell me-- You took a blade and... and... People don't just do that when they're BORED! Human beings don't destroy themselves for ENTERTAINMENT! You can't expect me to believe--" He stopped and took a moment to catch his breath and steady himself.

Sherlock frowned quizzically. Boredom. That was why he'd done all this... Wasn't it?

All he said was, "I'm not destroying myself."

"Oh really?! Really?! What do you call this, then, Sherlock?" He tugged his arm out straight and gave him a pointed look. "Go on, I want to hear it!"

John's eyes were a little wider than normal. His voice was strained. He kept blinking, hard, and Sherlock could see his pulse. All indicators of distress.

Perhaps he did care...?

Or maybe he was upset that he thought Sherlock had lied to him. That must be it.

"Sherlock, look at me." He'd cleared his throat and had lowered his voice so it wouldn't crack. "Come on, look."

Sherlock brought his gaze back to his face, slightly questioning.

John shut his eyes for a second and searched for the right words to say.

"Okay... I'm your friend. Is that important to you at all? Do you even understand how people worry about their best friends?" He ignored Sherlock's raised eyebrow. "They do. A lot. And when they find them doing something like this... Yeah, it makes them worried. But it makes me sad, too."

"You changed your personal pronouns." Sherlock observed quietly.

"I did..." He sighed. "Because it means a lot to me. It's personal. I don't even know if you can see how this affects me, but it does. I hate worrying like this, and... I know you're all about being cold and emotionless, but I know why other people do this to themselves and I can't believe it's that much different for you. So yeah, I worry."

"You believe I'm depressed? John, you know I just--"

"I've just found out my best friend is _cutting himself_ \--don't you dare tell me it's nothing!" Though he meant to put more emphasis on these words, they came out as little more than strained whispers.

Sherlock quieted again and lowered his eyes.

John half sat up and seemed to change plans mid-movement, pulling him forward by the wrist and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders in a hug that caught the detective completely off guard.

"John--?"

"Shhh." Perhaps it was selfish, but he stayed like that for a minute before he released him and sat back, wiping his eyes and looking only slightly abashed. He brushed the edge of the bandages on Sherlock's arms. "Let me see."

Sherlock cringed away. "No..."

"I'm the doctor, dammit. _Let me see._ "

 

John unwrapped the bandages as carefully as he could, and Sherlock watched in silence. He'd been aware of a creeping darkness in the back of his skull for the last few minutes, and now he focused on the sting of the open air on his wounds in an attempt to keep it from spreading and to keep himself grounded and awake.

He watched as John bit his lip. The cuts were deep--a bit too deep, Sherlock knew. He'd realized that too late, but he'd managed to lessen, if not stop the bleeding eventually, until now that John had unwrapped them again. It had gotten his heart beating a bit faster last night, when so much blood had spilled forth and didn't stop, so much of it, way too much... He'd almost panicked...

The memory began to dim as his consciousness went hazy and his vision swam.

"I'm calling the hospital."

 

It had been boredom. Hadn't it?

Just bored.

 

....right?

 

+++++++++

 

Beep.

 

Beep.

 

Beep.

 

Sterile.

 

A strong smell of antiseptic.

 

Bright lights through closed eyelids.

 

Too uncomfortable.

 

And that irritating beeping...

 

Hospital?

 

Sherlock's mind gradually surfaced back to reality. He was now aware of a warm pressure on his left hand where it lay on the bed sheets, and he slowly opened one eye and stared down at John's hand, resting over top of his own.

His brain still felt thick and clouded--this time likely by medications as much as blood loss--and he struggled to make sense of everything. John was asleep in the chair beside the bed, his chin resting on his shoulder awkwardly. He must have been there a long time.

Sherlock registered a pronounced numbness in his arms and concluded that he'd been given a strong pain reliever and mostly likely received stitches in both arms. How annoying.... But they'd leave nice scars, at least. He smiled drowsily to himself at the thought. He couldn't have said why, but he liked the scars.

John wouldn't understand.

Sherlock glanced over at him again. With everything that had happened.... He wasn't sure if he liked the outcome.

John had said he cared, in a way. That was surprising--he'd been certain no one did. Then again, it could have been just words. But now that John knew everything... Sherlock's worries had been realized; he bit back a curse and stared up at the ceiling.

But... John was still here.

He was still sitting next to him, holding his hand.

He hadn't left.

Not that Sherlock needed that sort of silly support, of course, but he felt reassured nonetheless.

John made a sudden sound and jerked awake, and momentary panic showed in his eyes--but then he saw Sherlock looking at him, and he relaxed again.

"Oh... You're awake." He said lamely and let go of Sherlock's hand, knowing he wasn't fond of excess contact.

"Yes, I am. Didn't I say something about not wanting to be here...?" It was an accusation, not a question.

"You lost the right to choose when you did this. You lost a lot of blood, Sherlock. It really shouldn't have taken this long to get it remedied--you might have faced serious consequences. Does that mean anything to you?" He grimaced at his stiff neck and shifted in his chair. "You should have come to me as soon as it happened and told me so I could help you. Not waited all damn night on the floor, and then let me think you just had a cold or something."

"I didn't want to come here."

John sighed. This felt like walking around in circles in Antarctica. "But why? Why couldn't you have used some common sense and just let yourself be taken care of, just this once? Because it WAS necessary."

"Because... If I went to the hospital I knew they'd find all this..." Sherlock nodded to his arms, which were now bandaged cleanly.

John shut his eyes for a moment. "And that couldn't happen because...? You wanted to continue killing yourself slowly, right under my nose? Never going to let me know until it was too late, was that the plan?" He ignored the slight furrow in Sherlock's brow; he wasn't controlling what he said now. Tiredness and emotion had destroyed his filter.

"I'm doing nothing of the sort. Don't be overly dramatic--"

" _I'M_ not the one being dramatic, Sherlock! You passed out on me because you'd been fucking slashing your arms to hell!! Think for a second, will you?! Can you picture what this looks like from my perspective?!"

Sherlock went quiet, but John paid him no heed and went on heatedly. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do for you anymore, honestly! I thought I was doing alright, but I guess not! And you won't even tell me truthfully why you even started this--you don't even want help! Well what _do_ you want, then?! Am I not paying you enough attention?! Not praising you enough?!"

It registered in John's mind how scathing his words sounded as they left his lips, but he was too worked up to care. He knew it was cruel--and maybe he meant it that way.

Sherlock’s eyes reflected quiet hurt, but he remained still.

No. No--John _didn't_ mean it that way.

Sherlock’s lack of fight only made him feel worse. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that… I just don’t understand why you won’t come to me. You’re my best friend. I want to help.”

“…Help…?”

“Yes, help. You have a problem, and I want to help you fix it. But I don’t see why you won’t let me.”

"I just thought… that if you found out, maybe you'd..." Sherlock hesitated uncertainly. "...maybe you'd leave."

 


	4. Life Goes On

 

The day was a cold one. John watched the little puffs of frozen breath escaping from between Sherlock's lips as he sighed silently. Other than that he might not have known the detective was still breathing.

He hadn't spoken a word the entire cab ride home from the hospital to the doorstep of 221B, though John had snuck little sideways glances every now and then, watching Sherlock's expression reflected in the frosty window.

It hadn't told him anything.

Sherlock tightened his coat around his shoulders. This way, John supposed, with scars covered up and no strained conversation, everything almost seemed back to normal. If he could call it that.

He fumbled for his key with numb hands while Sherlock stood by impatiently. It had only been two days since he'd found out about his flatmate's 'little problem,' and already he was at a loss as to what to do about it. He'd never personally known anyone with this kind of vice, but he'd seen a handful of patients with it in his work at the clinic. They never stayed long.

And if he'd thought that that prepared him for dealing with it in the form of his closest friend, he would have been dead wrong.

At last he got the door opened and the two of them went inside, the warm air a welcome relief to their cold cheeks and frozen noses. Sherlock immediately went up the stairs, pulling off his scarf and coat, and John hurried after him with a vague feeling of paranoia. He didn't like leaving him alone anymore.

Thankfully Sherlock went straight to the sofa and threw himself onto it, being careful to avoid hitting his arms. How he could stand to lie around so much was a mystery to John.

John stood there in the doorway for a minute before he hung up his own coat and surveyed the chaos of their flat. He was going to have quite the job ahead of him. The kitchen was his first stop, where he gathered up all the knives he could find and deposited them all in a cardboard box on the dining table. Next he moved on to the living room, searching every surface and turning up a few scalpels and an old penknife he'd forgotten existed. Everything sharp went into the box, and when he figured he was finished he closed it up and set it next to his own bed. He'd have to find something better to do with it later.

Sherlock watched him from the sofa without comment. John couldn't tell from his expression what he thought of his actions, but he decided that he'd ignore it no matter what, because he damn well wasn't taking any more chances.

"What am I supposed to use for my experiments now?" Sherlock finally broke the silence.

"...I suppose you're out of luck. Maybe you can do some experiments that don't involve slicing anything up." The last words felt bad on his tongue and brought up mental images that made his heart hurt, which was odd because he hadn't meant them that way.

Sherlock didn't respond, having fallen back into the moody silence that had become so common for him recently.

John walked over and settled into his chair. Should he pick up a book? No... He couldn’t focus on reading if he'd tried. The silence weighed heavily on him, like a physical incarnation of Sherlock's mood, pressing in on his chest and making the atmosphere in the room uncomfortably thick.

He licked his lips and glanced at him again. A year, he'd said... John was suddenly kicking himself mentally.

A year. A whole damn year.

Three hundred and sixty-five days of blissful ignorance on his part, and that whole time Sherlock had been quietly 'dealing' with whatever it was that made him do this. He'd never said anything.

But then, John had never asked.

Now that he thought back on it, there had been signs. Signs he hadn't seen, times he could have made a difference but he hadn't because he'd been so stupid he couldn't recognize what was happening.

Why hadn't he pushed the issue further when Sherlock had worn long sleeves even on warm days? Why didn't he question the fact that he was so uncomfortable with being touched, especially on his _arms?_

It had been obvious. And he'd missed every cue. Every single one.

He sighed softly. If this was his fault, he was now determined to make it right.

Back in the hospital when they had been talking, John had been surprised by how open Sherlock had been--how vulnerable he’d seemed. It was a side he'd never seen before, and quite honestly one he imagined didn't exist. But he didn't doubt it now. He knew for a fact Sherlock had feelings, even if at times it seemed he didn't, and the scars only showed that they weren't always happy ones.

No matter how many times he heard it John would not believe that Sherlock was just bored. As bad as the cutting seemed, he knew it only scratched the surface of the problem. It was a result, and results _always_ have causes.

"...Sherlock?" It was a shot in the dark, and he knew he probably wouldn't get a reply, but the silence was about to suffocate him.

Sherlock only groaned into the cushions.

"Can we talk?" John waited in vain for another response. "It doesn't even have to be about... _it,_ if you don't want to. Just something."

He had almost begun to think he wasn't going to get anywhere when Sherlock spoke at last. "Talk about what, then? The weather?"

"Is that what it's going to take?"

"Mm."

Was that a yes or a no? "It's cold out. It might snow tonight."

"Mmm."

"Is there something on your mind?" He ignored the stupidity of the question.

Even he knew the answer, but he still needed to ask it.

Sherlock shifted a little to stare up at the ceiling. "John, I think you know exactly what's on my mind, and I'm doing my best to ignore it. Talking about the weather isn't going to help."

"Oh." John sat there looking down at his hands folded in his lap. "Yeah."

He should have known.

"Well, is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, there isn't!" Sherlock half sat up. "You've done everything I didn't want you to--you forced me to the hospital, you forced me to tell you about _this_ \--"

He gestured to the bandages angrily. "--you cleaned out the flat because you don't trust me, and you're trying to force me to stop doing the only thing that helps make things more manageable, and--" He shut his mouth, realizing he'd said too much.

John stared at him in surprise. Forced him? Wasn't this for the better? Wasn't this saving him a lot of pain? "I'm only trying to help you. I did those things because I care. Why are you angry with me?"

"I'm not angry with you!" Sherlock rolled over again. "No, wait, I am! I'm fucking _furious!_ Why couldn't you have just left me alone?! I don't want this!"

John took a deep breath. "I know you don't. And I'm sorry if this seems selfish, but I can't stand to see you hurting. So I'm doing what I have to do."

"Well congratulations, then, you can't see it anymore! And if you can't see it, it's gone, right?!"

"That's not what I--"

"Maybe not, but it's what you're doing!"

"I just... I don't want you to do this anymore. If that means fixing other things too, then we'll do that. But this isn't a good way to cope. You can see that, right?"

Sherlock went quiet again, and lay back on the sofa.

"I'm serious," John persisted. "Can you see why I don't like this? It isn't good for you. It's hurting you."

"No." Sherlock muttered. "It was helping."

"Honestly?! I had to take you to the hospital for blood loss! You had to have stitches! If I hadn't been there and found out you might have bled out and DIED!"

Sherlock pressed his lips together and said nothing. The heavy silence that settled back over the room made it clear that the conversation was over, even though John felt he had more to say.

He sighed and heaved himself up from his chair, unable to stand staying in the room any more. "I'm going to bed. If you need me, just--"

"I won't need you."

 

++++++++++

 

 

John slept fitfully, and when his alarm clock went off at 6:05 am he lay there for several minutes before rolling over and turning it off. He'd called Sarah the other day and explained that, for reasons he hadn't disclosed, his flatmate was in the hospital and he had to stay with him and miss work. But now that Sherlock was home he didn't have an excuse.

Maybe it would be fine. He'd removed all the blades he could find from the flat, and he could drop the box off at Mycroft's on his way to work--Mycroft likely already knew about some or all of this, _the sneaky git_ \--and he wanted to trust Sherlock. He really did. He was aware that he'd given him no reason to, but he had to start somewhere.

To be on the safe side, though, he would ask Mrs. Hudson to come check up on him while John was out.

Sherlock was still on the couch when he came downstairs, and responded grudgingly to John's 'good morning.' He looked alright, so John felt better about having to leave him.

He had a cup of coffee, tried unsuccessfully to talk Sherlock into having something, and ran out to catch a cab.

The day passed slowly. Nothing very interesting or difficult to treat turned up at the clinic, and he found himself praying for his shift to end. 

Sarah seemed to notice he was bothered, and during a lull she came into his office.

"John?"

"Mm?" He looked up from the papers he was going through. "What is it?"

"Are you alright? You just seem a little preoccupied."

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine. It's just..."

"Your flatmate?" She smiled sympathetically as he nodded in slight surprise. “You said he was in hospital."

"Oh, right." He shrugged. "Well, he's home now, so..."

"Do you want to talk about?"

John hesitated. He hadn't told anyone about Sherlock's problem since he found out himself.... And it was weighing heavily on his mind and on his shoulders, a weight that talking might help lessen...  But then, if he wanted to trust Sherlock he needed to be trustworthy himself, and he knew his friend probably wouldn't like having just anyone know.

So he shook his head and gave Sarah a small smile that he hoped looked convincing. "No, it's alright, thanks." He glanced at the office door. "I think I just heard someone come in."

"Oh, you're right--"

She hadn't tried again after that, and John was thankful for it. He might have given in if she had.

Finally his shift ended, and just in time too, as he was starting to feel the effects of his poor night's sleep.

He left the clinic, waving goodbye to Sarah, and caught another cab back to 221B.

 

 


	5. Relapse?

When the cab pulled up in front of the flat he sat there for a minute or so, just trying to ready himself to go inside. All this worry was taking a lot out of him.

He finally opened the door and got out, looking up at the building and letting out a big breath, watching a few snowflakes spiral down to earth.

Why did this have to happen...?

But everything would be alright. He and Sherlock would work through this, and everything would go back to the way it was before and it would all be fine.

He nodded to himself and shivered in the cold. He went up the steps and unlocked the door, edging inside so he let in as little frigid air as possible.

Mrs. Hudson met him in the foyer, giving him a warm smile. "Welcome home, dear. I checked on Sherlock like you asked, about an hour ago. He seemed just fine."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He returned her smile, but didn't think his own looked half as reassuring. 

As he climbed the steps he mumbled to himself quietly, trying to get the excess thoughts out of his head, to lessen the painful tightness in his chest. Was this the way Sherlock felt sometimes...?

He pushed open the door and went into the flat. He was exhausted and didn't pay any particular attention to anything around him, not even to switch on the lights.

...why were the lights off?

John swung his bag from his shoulder and tossed it onto the table, looking around in the dim room.

"Sherlock?" He moved forward and felt his way around. "Sherlock are you in here?"

The grate in the fireplace had been moved. Strange.

He determined the living room to be quite empty of Sherlock, and was about to go back to turn on the lights—as he should have done before—when he noticed the soft glow under the detective's bedroom door.

John paused with his hand on the doorknob. Should he knock? He decided to try once, and when he got no response he bit his lip and pushed the door open anyway.

"Are you awake...?" He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. Then his breath caught.

"Oh god, Sherlock—"

 

++++++++++++++++++++

 

Sherlock looked up from his seat on the bed with an almost dead gaze. He held the scalpel tightly, as if it were a lifeline that might slip away if he let go.

His face was unreadable, but his lips trembled ever so slightly.

John took in the scalpel, the little wooden box that stood open beside him on the blankets, filled with an assortment of blades, his rolled up sleeves—and acted before he even had time to think.

He tackled him in his haste and wrenched the scalpel from his hands as Sherlock held on, leaning forward and mumbling pleadingly,

"John, please—no—I didn't—let go... Please... _please..._ "

John didn't speak. He couldn't. He was aware, through a rushing haze of adrenaline, that he was holding Sherlock too tightly, that he was hurting him—but he could only focus on getting that scalpel away from him.

Sherlock's grip loosened enough for him to pry the blade from his fingers and throw it as far away from them as he could. He wrestled him down onto the blankets and held him there, pinned on his back.

Sherlock shut his eyes, struggling to push him away. "Get off! I wasn't going to—"

"YOU HAD MORE BLADES!" John leaned over him and quickly examined his exposed arms, searching frantically for the fresh cuts he knew must be there.

But he couldn't find any...

"No—I wasn't—"

John gripped his shirt in his fists.  "WHAT DID YOU DO?! SHERLOCK, WHAT DID YOU—“

"I WASN'T GOING TO DO IT!" Sherlock's voice finally broke, and he lay there glaring up at him with gritted teeth and a faint flush on his cheeks.

"But you... I saw..."

"I thought about it, but I wasn't going to do it!" He hissed. "I decided not to!"

He'd... What?

John sat back a bit and allowed him some room to breathe. If—IF—he could believe him, this would be a huge step in the right direction. But just yesterday he hadn't even acknowledged that it was hurting him... Was it too much to hope that this was the truth?

Yes. Yes it was.

“Sherlock…” He let out a long, pent up breath and rested his forehead on the detective’s chest in pure exhaustion. “Look. I just want this to stop. You say you’re just bored. So what if I do everything I can to keep you from being bored, and we’ll see if that helps, okay?”

John knew it was bull. Sherlock wasn’t bored. But he had to find a way to prove it, and if being straightforward didn’t work, then he was willing to try humoring him.

John was a doctor, not a psychologist, but he liked to think he could also be whatever the situation demanded--and if Sherlock had reason enough to self harm then there must also be reason for him to have a nice long talk with someone who would listen, i.e. a therapist.

But this was Sherlock.

That was unthinkable.

Preposterous, even.

So John, with his insufficient training and licensing in this particular area, would have to do.

 


	6. Doctor John

In all outward respects this felt like any other afternoon spent indoors in the living room of 221B, with the curtains half drawn to block out the bleak pitter-patter of rain on the glass, with Sherlock curled on the sofa in his blue silk dressing gown, and John in the armchair with the reading lamp on, where it was perched precariously on a stack of old science books.

But John wasn't reading; he wouldn't have been able to focus on a book anyway, because this was not quite like just any other afternoon in the flat. He supposed Sherlock sensed that, as well, but it was just bloody like him not to mention it and to drag out the uncomfortable silence.

Or maybe that was all in John's head.

There had been a lot in there recently. Too much to deal with. And this, this was probably only going to increase the volume of things he had to worry and think about.

He found himself wishing yet again that he could be like Sherlock and delete particular memories from his mind, and never have to bother with them again.

Wouldn't that be lovely.

Which ones he'd delete first was the next question... Perhaps the breakup with his latest girlfriend. He had Sherlock and his smart mouth--which he'd never learned to close--to thank for that one.

Or perhaps he'd delete the moment he'd found out about all this.

That particular moment had been weighing heavily on him ever since, and it never quite left him alone. The sheer number of scars, the depth of them, the way the deeper cuts reflected a sort of lack of control...

It scared him.

And he wasn't even the one who had spent a night in a hospital bed being treated for blood loss.

But it did, because... It was so unlike Sherlock. So... human.

Maybe that was another reason he'd kept it hidden so well; he'd do anything to make sure no one ever knew when he lost control.

Or was it a form of control in itself? Discipline the flesh for what the soul was feeling or needing?

He shook his head dazedly.

This was getting much too philosophical for his own good. Back to reality now.

Sherlock had said then that this was 'an old habit he'd gone back to.' But how old of a habit did that mean?

That might be a good place to start, he supposed. At least, he couldn't think of anything better.

He cleared his throat. "Sherlock? Can I talk to you?"

"That depends entirely on what you're going to say." Sherlock rolled over a bit. "If you're worried about the petri dish in the oven, I assure you it isn't as infectious as you think it is."

"No, I--what?"

"Continue. I'm listening." Sherlock stretched out on his back and propped his head up on the couch cushions, lacing his fingers together over his chest.

Well, that just completed the little therapist/patient scene this was likely about to become.

Perfect.

John sighed heavily and scratched the back of his neck. "Look... There's just been something I've been wondering, about this whole cu..." He stopped. "thing." He found he didn't want to say it out loud, for some reason.

"Cutting. That's what you mean, yes?"

John swallowed. "Yeah. Of course." He hadn't expected Sherlock to be so blunt about it, but he probably should have, especially from him. "I just... You said it was an old habit."

Sherlock nodded, but offered nothing more. He might as well have just rolled his eyes and said _'so?'_

"So I was wondering if you could tell me exactly when that started, if you haven't deleted that too."

A little smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips. "I may have. Is it important to you?"

"Well, it would be nice to know, you know, to help me get a better picture..."

The smile disappeared, and was replaced by a slight frown. "Not this again. I told you before, I was merely bored."

This was definitely going to be a challenge in patience, on John's part.

"...right. Then you telling me when it started would help me figure out exactly what it was that made you bored enough to... to..."

"Cut."

"Yeah. Help us figure out the trigger, you could say."

Sherlock took a breath and let it out again, examining his knuckles as he considered the idea thoughtfully, and apparently didn't find it all that horrible. "Hmm. Perhaps you're right for once."

_Going to ignore that one._

"Okay, good." John found himself letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. This was going really well, actually. "Good. So. Do you think you can remember when...?"

"The first time..." Sherlock shut his eyes and rested the tips of his steepled fingers against his lips in deep thought. After a while he nodded, without opening his eyes. "I do seem to remember. 12, I believe."

John sat there for a few seconds, his brow furrowed. "12. 12 years old? Sherlock, that's... I mean..."

What had John been doing back when he was 12 years old?

Softball?

Getting solid B's and C's in school?

Playing tag with his friends?

And meanwhile the young Holmes had been likely holed up in his room with scalpels and razors and whatever demon he was up against...

John found it difficult to imagine even being aware that self mutilation was an option at that age.

He wished Sherlock hadn't been aware either.

But it was much, much too late for that.

But if it started when Sherlock was 12, then he would still have been living at home. And it must have continued for a long time, so why hadn't anyone noticed?

Admittedly, it had taken John himself an entire year to realize--but still, his parents...

"Didn't anyone... You know, find out? Try to stop you?"

Sherlock scoffed, and really did roll his eyes this time. "Who would find out? My parents were practically living overseas at that point, and Mycroft spent days at a time away at school."

"So who were you living with, then?"

"Myself." He smirked condescendingly. "I, unlike most children my age, was mature enough to take care of myself."

Wait, that meant...

"Maturity has nothing to do with it. What you're telling me is that you were basically alone for days and days in your house with no one to talk to, or..."

Sherlock frowned. "Why would I want to talk to anyone?"

"Of course. Why would you want to do that..." John spoke with quiet resignation, pursing his lips and resting his chin in his palm. "Do you think that was part of it?"

"Mm?" Sherlock glanced over at him, for the first time since the conversation began.

"Er, do you think that all that solitude could have made you a little, well, lonely? And maybe that--" He continued quickly before Sherlock could say whatever he was surely about to come out with. "--could have resulted in you being bored. Bored enough to do this."

Sherlock lay back again and considered. "Hmm... Bored... You know, that might be a just slightly feasible hypothesis. I'm surprised you came up with something so logical."

John almost smiled.

But not quite.

His heart clenched at seeing how eagerly Sherlock latched onto this little game that let him direct the focus of the conversation onto anything other than his own feelings, how he was so pleased to be able to explain his problem away in terms of boredom and logic and maturity... How contented he was to pretend it didn't exist, or that John didn't know...

It was almost pitiful. 

And John felt sorry for him.

But he could never have said that, or this entire thing would backfire and all the careful work he had done to keep the conversation going without making Sherlock feel he was being psychoanalyzed would go to waste.

God.

This was so backwards.

Sherlock was supposed to be the one psychoanalyzing, if any such thing needed to be done, not John.

Then again... quite a lot of things seemed to be backwards these days.

 

 


	7. Just Checking

"Okay, now the other sleeve." John waited patiently as Sherlock groaned and rolled up his left sleeve, letting him check his arm over carefully.

"I told you, I'm clean."

"I know you did, but I'm only human. I have to check." John stepped back and let him roll his sleeves back down.

Nothing new...

Strange.

It had been a whole week and a half, and though John insisted Sherlock let him check every few days, it seemed he really was telling the truth.

He was clean.

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, walking back to the kitchen to start the tea. He had been sure this would have been a much more difficult habit to break, considering what it was and why he probably did it. But it had been over two weeks since Sherlock had cut; not since the trip to the hospital.

Not since John had started the 'let's-keep-Sherlock-not-bored' campaign.

Not since he hadn't been bored...

No, that couldn't be it. John brushed the thought aside stubbornly and poured the hot water into mugs, watching the steam condense on the sides.

It wasn't just because Sherlock was bored. There had to be something else.

There had to be.

Didn't there?

John knew human beings weren't like that--they didn't just inflict horrible pain on themselves because there was nothing else to do that day. He knew he would never do something like that himself.

But... There were a lot of things Sherlock did that John would never think to do...

No, no, no.

No.

No matter how many times he made him doubt it, Sherlock was human too--and even if many didn't, at least some rules of nature did apply to the smartest man in

London. This had to be one of them.

Not boredom.

Right?

"Dammit..." John stopped stirring the tea and stood there for a few seconds, looking from the open salt container to his mug, and back again. "Did I really just..."

Right now, putting two spoonfuls of salt into his tea instead of sugar should have been the least of his worries, but it grated on his already raw nerves like the edge of a rusty knife.

"God dammit!" He brought his fist down on the counter, making the spoon jump in the cup and Sherlock look up from the sofa.

"Something wrong?"

"No, no there's nothing wrong. Nothing."He was aware of his tone as his words hissed through clenched teeth, but he didn't have the patience right now to do anything about it.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and watched him empty the mug into the sink and toss the spoon in along with it with a loud clatter.

"I'm going out for some air." John went for his coat and was already halfway out the door as he pulled it on.

"It's already eight thirty--"

"I'd noticed that, thanks."

He shut the door before Sherlock could say anything else--or perhaps it was really before John could say anything else even more waspish.

That was the last thing he needed to be doing right now.

Losing his temper. Over what?

Salt?

Or maybe the fact that he might have been wrong.

Maybe...

He raised his head and looked up at the front window, where the lights were still on and where Sherlock was likely still sitting on the sofa, probably more than a little irritated with him.

_Why did John have to be like this...?_

He pinched the bridge of his nose and set off walking down the dark street. He would have to make up for this later.

But right now was not the time.

Now he had to cool off a little first.

 

++++++++++++++++++

 

_Twenty minutes earlier..._

"Okay, now the other sleeve."

Sherlock groaned inwardly--and outwardly--as John waited for him to roll up his left sleeve for the obligatory inspection, which was completely unnecessary.

Sherlock had told him multiple times that he was clean now, and that was the truth. But no matter how many times he told him it didn't seem to convince him--the stubborn git.

He unbuttoned the cuff and pulled the sleeve up, waiting for John to examine his arm carefully. When he didn't find anything Sherlock smirked and rolled his sleeve back down. "I told you, I'm clean."

"I know you did, but I'm only human. I have to check."

No, he didn't. Sherlock had told him already.

And it was true.

Sherlock turned on his heel and made his way to the sofa, where he settled on his back and stared up at the ceiling, hands clasped over his chest.

He could hear the clinking of mugs and the clank of the kettle as John started the tea.

John had been acting strangely for the last two weeks, ever since he had found out about the cutting.

Sherlock had noticed that he had seemed rather on edge all the time, and was particularly... _protective_ was the word Sherlock wanted to use, but it wasn't the right one. It couldn't be.

_Overbearing._

Yes.

John hadn't left when he found out, and that was good.

But now he hardly let him out of his sight, and that was a bit not good.

It got irritating fast.

He sighed quietly and counted the dents on the ceiling for the hundred-thousandth time.

_His scars ached._

Why was that?

It was as though he wanted to.... Really wanted to...

But no. He wasn't bored. That didn't make sense.

He wasn't bored...

_It was getting stronger._

Not bored...

A week ago he had picked up a blade from the morgue, without asking anyone of course, and without telling John, because he would obviously be adverse to the idea after he had gone so far as to clean out the flat of all things sharp. But it was okay, because he wasn't planning on using it. He just liked having it.

It... gave him a certain sense of security. A reassurance.

_Where had he put it...?_

He leaned back and contemplated everything quietly-but he was interrupted by a sudden banging sound from the kitchen and John's outburst of "God dammit!"

He sat up and looked over at him. "Something wrong?"

"No, no there's nothing wrong. Nothing." John snapped quickly and emptied his mug of tea into the sink.

Why was he upset now...? Was it something Sherlock had said...? He couldn't think of anything that would make him so tetchy, but people like John cared about the most unimportant things...

John announced that he was going out 'for some air'--but his tone and posture radiated anger, which was even more confusing.

If he was angry why wasn't he confronting him?

Maybe it was too terrible…

It was late anyway.

"It's already eight thirty--" Sherlock tried, sitting up, but John was already out the door.

"I'd noticed that, thanks." He cut him off, and then the door slammed shut and he was gone.

Well.

Sherlock sat there quietly for a little while, and then lay back again resignedly and gazed up at nothing in particular.

_The blade was under a copy of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, volume III, on the bookshelf._

He must have done something wrong. Again. Maybe this time it had been enough to drive John out the door forever...

Maybe it was because he was too needy. Too weak.

But he'd told him he had just been bored...

He had been.

_His scars itched._

...Hadn't he?


	8. Liar

The moon was bright in the velvety night sky as John trudged down the street, hands shoved deep in his pockets to hide them from the chill. The world seemed so clear and obvious here, lit up by the moon and the stars and the glowing Tesco sign.

Why couldn't everything really be this clear?

Why did it all have to be so shadowy and confusing?

And Sherlock wasn't helping.

He appeared to have quit cutting, yes, but that couldn't be it. The story couldn't just stop there.

Back in school John had heard about a girl who had the same problem. He had never actually met her, but he'd heard rumours. Gossip, mostly, cruel things.

But they stopped being cruel and swiftly became fake words of love and remorse once it all went a little too far and she'd let it go a little too deep.

Addictions didn't just stop.

It wasn't a switch you could just turn on and off.

Something was pushing Sherlock, like that girl from school. John didn't know what it was, and that was more unsettling than anything, because if he didn't know what it was, how could he possibly make sure it didn't go too far...?

But then again, was that really his job?

Sherlock had somehow made it all the way up from a 12 year old to a grown man without letting it slip, without letting it go too deep. Maybe he didn't need John's help so desperately.

He shook his head and took a deep breath of the sharp night air.

That was his own exhaustion talking, trying to rationalise and get himself off the hook. Only it was wrong. 

Had he forgotten what happened two weeks ago? Sherlock's upper arms had required nearly twenty stitches. He'd lost so much blood John had thought he was ill.

If that wasn't too deep, John didn't know what was.

And now he was resisting. That had to be it. To show John that it really _was_ just the boredom--when it really wasn't at all.

After the fact John had spent some time on the internet doing a little research on the topic, in an attempt to find something useful. He knew Sherlock was a special case--always a special case--but he was at a loss and could really do with a little outside opinion.

He'd stumbled on a quote on some website, the name of which he'd forgotten, but the words stuck with him.  He went back over them, wondering if they were true in this particular situation, if they really applied.

_"You don't understand how much pain you have to be in to drag a blade across your skin because that's the only pain you can control."_

That dead look in Sherlock's eyes when he'd found him with his secret stash of blades had not spelled boredom. It had spelled hopelessness. In a way, giving up.

That had been two weeks ago...

John stopped at the edge of the sidewalk and turned back toward the flat. He'd cooled off enough by now.

Cooled off so much that a little shiver had slithered up his spine, making the hair on the nape of his neck prickle. He set his teeth and walked a little quicker, listening to his own footsteps following him in the darkness like the slight worry that was beginning to trail his thoughts.

It was an unfounded worry.

Nothing to take seriously.

And yet he couldn't quite shake it off.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++

 

"Sherlock? I'm home. Are you still awake?”

It was nearly ten o’clock at night when he got back to the flat and mounted the stairs, trying to keep them from creaking and waking poor Mrs. Hudson.

All the lights in the whole flat were on, making him blink and squint after his long trek out in the gloom.

He thought he heard a groan in the direction of the living room and frowned, making his way toward it.

Sherlock was on the floor beside the sofa, curled in on himself, not moving but muttering endlessly under his breath.

“…Sherlock?” As John stepped closer Sherlock’s head snapped up and he fixed wide, unnaturally dark eyes on him, hardly blinking.

John stopped where he was, staring at him. “Are you alright?”

For a few seconds there was no reaction from the detective. Then he finally blinked and looked at him as if just realizing he was there. “Go away.”

“No, I’m not going to go away. Something’s not right about you. What happened?”

John barely had time to register the Union Jack pillow flying at his face, and only his reflexes as a soldier saved him from the actual impact.

“Sherlock, what the hell—”

“GO AWAY!”

“Look, I know I was crabby earlier, but I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”

_What on earth…?_

Sherlock was pale and sweaty, and he huddled on the floor, eyes darting around the room, only occasionally focussing on him.

“Oh my god…” John took another step closer, staring into the detective’s widely dilated pupils. “You’re… Oh my _god._ You’re _high!_ ”

Instead of answering Sherlock only retreated farther away from him, pulling himself up by the arm of the couch and sending nervous glances around the room.

“Are you kidding me?! Are you _fucking_ kidding me?!” John’s fists clenched and he could feel the blood pounding in his ears. “I leave for AN HOUR AND A HALF—“

“ _Can’t breathe._ ” Sherlock clutched at his chest, still looking very tense and uneasy.

“WELL JESUS, HOW MUCH DID YOU TAKE?!”

He fixed John with that overly intense stare again, his whole demeanour going rigid. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I live here, Sherlock.” He took a deep breath.

This was an unfamiliar situation by far, though he’d dealt with people who were high before. But never Sherlock.

He’d never seen him so… paranoid.

“You’re not really here! You’re not coming back!” Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tightly and covered his ears.

“…What are you talking about? I’m right here. I’m not leaving you.”

“ _LIAR!_ ” Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, and he glared poison daggers at him. “YOU’RE LYING, JUST LIKE THE REST OF THEM!” 

_The rest of them…_


	9. Promise Me This

_“I’m not leaving you.”_

_Lie._

_“I won’t abandon you.”_

_False._

_“I’m your friend.”_

_I don’t have friends._

_“You mean something to me.”_

_Then why do you **all leave?** _

_No…_

_Don’t answer that._

_I know why._

 

+++++++++++++++++++++

“Sherlock, hang on—look at me!” John dipped his head to try and catch the detective’s eye, but he’d clammed up again and wasn’t responding. “No, look at me! I—“ _How should he do this…?_ “I’m staying here—whether you like it or not! I— _listen_ —will not _leave you._ ”

“Yes you will! You’re human! _That’s what people do!_ ”

_Hadn’t he heard that line somewhere before…?_

Sherlock clutched at his chest again, long white fingers pulling at his collar and managing to tear off the first two buttons, exposing his pale throat and collarbone before he seemed to decide that wasn’t actually going to help with the uncomfortable tightness. He sucked in a deep breath and stared around the room.

John followed his intense gaze, but if there was really anything there to see then it wasn’t for John’s eyes.

_Hallucinations, probably._

_Textbook._

When he looked back again Sherlock was yanking up his sleeves with a focussed resolve.

_Also textbook?_

“No, Sherlock, wait—“ He almost tripped on the fallen throw pillow in his haste to get over to him, but Sherlock pushed back and tried to retreat to the bookshelf.

John grabbed him by both wrists and held him firmly. When Sherlock found he couldn’t escape the hands he gave up and slumped against him, mumbling pleadingly.

“Let me go… please… _Please,_ it’s too much—I have to—let go of me…” 

His breaths came ragged, and—no.

No, that was not happening.

That could not be happening.

His shoulders were only shaking because of the drug.

That shine on his cheek was only sweat.

Only…

Sherlock Holmes didn’t cry.

He would let drops of blood fall before teardrops.

He never cried.

_Never._

John felt as if the whole room were caught in some sort of time warp, where he and Sherlock were the only two who weren’t frozen solid. Nothing else mattered then, because at that moment the great Sherlock Holmes, famous, enigmatic, cold, calculating, absolutely brilliant, funny-hat-wearing, consulting detective of 221B Baker Street sobbed into his blogger’s shoulder.

He just stood there, letting him lean against him but not quite sure if he should release his wrists in order to put an arm around his shoulders.

Should he say something?

No use, his mind was blank.

This was something he had always thought he could bet his life on never happening. Now that it was it all seemed a little too daunting—a little out of control.

Somehow even when Sherlock had carved his hurt into his own skin he had outwardly seemed… the same as ever.

Strong.

In control.

John now realized he had needed that.

He, not Sherlock.

But now even that mask had slipped, and for the time being Sherlock didn’t seem to have the energy to put it back on. So for now, until that happened, John would have to be the one to be strong enough for the both of them. To carry it all and not complain, just the way Sherlock had for 32 years…

With a little sigh he let go of one of Sherlock’s wrists and carefully wrapped his free arm around his trembling shoulders. There was resistance to the touch at first; John could feel it. Of course he wouldn’t be used to physical contact, he’d had so very little of it in his lifetime.

Of course.

But after a few moments the resistance weakened, because he needed this. This was something he required but didn’t know he did, because he’d never allowed it to happen before.

And maybe there had never been anyone there to just… hold him.

To rub his back in slow, gentle circles.

To murmur reassuring things into his messy curls.

To listen.

To stay.

_To exist._

But now John was here. And he wasn’t going _anywhere,_ not until his dying day—because Sherlock had once saved his life, when he’d rescued him from the lonely monotony of civilian existence, and now John was going to return the favour.

Not like he had when he’d saved Sherlock by shooting the cabby.

Or like any times after that.

This time he would save him from a much, much worse fate, something so much more painful and drawn-out.

In a different way.

This time he would have to save him from himself.

John knew what loneliness felt like. He knew from previous experience that it was sharp and searing and dull and heavy and bitter and burning and probably so much worse for someone who’d lived his entire life that way.

And he couldn’t bear to watch his best friend pretend to handle it all.

Sherlock let out a shaky little sigh, and he could feel some of the tense muscles beginning to relax.

“…Sherlock?” John’s voice came out as a whisper. “Do you want to sit down?”

As much as just standing right here was good, John’s legs were getting a little weak from holding the taller man up, and collapsing probably wouldn’t be the best course of action.

When they were situated on the sofa, among the haphazard pillows and the stray paper or two, Sherlock leaned back and very, very slowly inched over so his body rested against John’s shoulder. Even high as a kite he retained a little of his hesitancy.

John was still holding his wrist, and as they sat there in the quiet he found his fingertips running gently over the white scars, slightly raised from the rest of Sherlock’s smooth skin. So many of them…

An idea was slowly forming in his head, one he batted around in there like a game of tennis, back and forth, trying to decide if he should say it or not. Eventually the scars won the game.

He spoke softly, looking over at the detective. “Sherlock?”

“Mm.”

“I know you probably won’t remember this when you’re sober, but… D’you think…” He sighed. “Would you make a little pact with me? A pact to say that from now on, you won’t cut if you’re feeling sad. If you ever feel like doing it, you can come to me and I’ll try my damndest to make it better. Because I’m staying right here, don’t you ever doubt that.”

Sherlock was listening quietly, not about to speak yet, but listening.

“I’m a man of my word, you know that.” He continued to brush over the scars with the pad of his thumb. “Don’t you ever worry that I’m going to up and leave you, alright? Because I understand. Sure, you can be a _massive_ twat sometimes, and I might get cross—with good reason—but that’s never going to make me leave. I promise. You don’t have to go it alone anymore.”

_Fuck, now John was the one tearing up._

He blinked hard. “So. Deal?”

Sherlock sat there in silence for a while, and John had just begun to wonder if he’d somehow managed to fall asleep with his eyes open, but then he nodded slightly.

“Deal.”


	10. Volume III

Sherlock didn’t remember.

He must not have remembered any of it.

In the days that followed there was nothing spoken about what happened, no acknowledgement of the breakdown, or the conversation, or even the fact that Sherlock had shot up out of the blue.

_Did he even remember doing that?_

He must.

Right?

Regardless, no new lines appeared during the now routine inspections of the detective’s arms.

It occurred to John that arms weren’t the only places a person could cut, but given Sherlock’s disposition he wasn’t sure if it would work out so well if he asked to check anywhere else.

Not to mention awkward.

Because even if it were the most standard thing ever, Sherlock could make it awkward.

So he made sure his arms were clean, and took him at his word from there.

He still maintained that he wasn’t bored anymore and had quit—but by now John just let it roll off his back, nodding and responding, but not really listening.

Even if drugs were probably the second worst thing Sherlock could have gone back to, John was at least a little indebted to them.

Or at least, to their effects on his best friend.

They allowed him to get a clearer look into what was actually going on inside that brilliant mind, to understand a little bit more of what drove him to…

Do things.

He would never have told him if he were sober.

Someone bumped into him and he looked around, snapped out of his thoughts, but it was just a fellow shopper trying to get past in the crowded grocery isle. He apologized without thinking and moved on, checking his list again.

Milk was next…

His mobile buzzed with a text alert, but at the moment his hands were full and he ignored it. When it buzzed a second, and then a third time, he groaned and shifted his things around in his hands so he could get at his pocket.

_Fine…_

His brow furrowed as he unlocked it.

 

**3 new messages:**

_John, please come home. –SH_

_Now. –SH_

_Please. –SH_

 

John hoped Sherlock didn’t know just how much ice that simple _‘please’_ sent through his veins, or just how fast he put everything down and dashed out to the street to hail a cab.

He fumbled a little with the keypad and managed to type out a hasty response.

 

_Are you okay? –JW_

_Sherlock? –JW_

_Why aren’t you responding? –JW_

_Come **on!** Reply already! –JW_

_Say something! –JW_

 

The cab had barely stopped in front of 221B before John was out the door and tearing up the stairs. He flung the door open—and stopped where he was.

Sherlock turned his head lazily and glanced at him from where he was lounging in the armchair, cleaning his violin bow.

“Ah, there you are. Took you long enough.”

John let out a huge breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His knees were suddenly jelly, and his heart still refused to stop doing backflips.

“SHERLOCK, YOU—DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW WORRIED I—“ He gasped and leaned a hand against the doorframe for support. “WHY THE HELL DIDN’T YOU TEXT BACK?!”

The detective raised an eyebrow languidly at his tone and went back to cleaning the bow. “Mobile dropped under the chair. Couldn’t be bothered.”

“YOU ‘COULDN’T BE BOTHERED’—GOD, THAT’S—WHY AM I EVEN SURPRISED? WHY THE _HELL_ AM I EVEN—“

He didn’t even look up. “When you’re finished overreacting, you can get me that copy of the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_ from the shelf. Third volume.”

John stood there, mouth agape, staring at Sherlock’s bent head in disbelief. After several long moments Sherlock looked up at him enquiringly.

“Let me get this straight.” John spoke firmly and slowly, trying to control the way his blood had begun to boil.

Sherlock nodded, still watching him.

“You… called me here…”

“Mm hmm.”

“…From all the way down at the shops…”

“Mm hmm.”

“…So I could _fetch you the bloody Encyclopaedia._ ”

“Well, that is basically exactly what I just said, yes.”

“IT’S HARDLY THREE METERS AWAY FROM YOU! I THOUGHT YOU WERE IN TROUBLE! YOU ARE _SO—_ “

Sherlock just sat there, rolling his eyes and waiting out the storm.

“ _YOU FUCKING PRAT!_ I’M NOT YOUR DOG, YOU ARSE! I WAS RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF GETTING THE GROCERIES! I DON’T HAVE TO DO THAT, YOU KNOW! OR I WOULDN’T, IF YOU WOULD GET UP AND DO AT LEAST _SOME THINGS_ BY YOURSELF, _YOU_ _IDLE_ _TWAT!_ ”

Hurricane Watson raged on for several more minutes before running out of steam, and all the while Sherlock tapped his bow against his temple, barely stifling a yawn.

When John seemed to have finished spewing abuse Sherlock set his feet up on the coffee table casually and leaned back. “Volume three.”

John stumped heavily over to the bookshelf, still cursing under his breath. He stretched up and pulled the large book down from the shelf, pausing from his muttering as something small and shiny came along with it and clattered onto the floor.

He frowned, bending to retrieve the thing, the ice in his blood starting to return.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm? Ah, yes. That.” He hadn’t even looked up. “You can keep it.”

“I can… Sherlock, where did you get this? How long has it been under here?”

“That’s hardly important.”

“No, it is! I want to know.”

Sherlock sighed, still polishing the bow, though it hardly needed it anymore. “Morgue. Been there a week.”

A _week…_  

“I haven’t used it. I know what you’re thinking.”

_It wouldn’t have taken a super genius to figure that one out._

“But you…” John looked from the Encyclopaedia in one hand to the thin blade in the other. “You called me here for…”

“Forget the stupid book, John.”

“But…”

Sherlock groaned with impatience and finally set the bow aside, heaving himself up from the chair. “Don’t look so confused.”

“Well I wouldn’t if you could just explain—“

Sherlock sidestepped piles of papers and a cardboard box on the floor and took the Encyclopaedia from John’s hands, turning to slip it back into its place on the shelf. “It’s not so hard to understand, really.” He turned back around. “You said I should come to you.”

 

 


	11. He Never Knew

John found himself standing there for several extraordinarily long moments, just looking back into Sherlock’s face. The detective’s cool gray-blue eyes were fixed on him, perhaps waiting, but they seemed guarded.

Of course they would be—even as he took such a large step into the void of chance, he would have to be prepared with extra walls to protect himself, just in case.

John wished he didn’t.

Then again, the amount of courage that one step must have taken…

“You mean, you remember—“

Sherlock raised a hand to silence him. “Don’t.”

“But you called me because you—“

“I said don’t.” He kept his eyes on John’s face carefully and didn’t let them stray down to the blade in his hands.

“Well what do you need me to do, then? If you want, I could—”

“No. Just stay.”

There were a few more moments of silence, and then John nodded.

He understood.

His hand closed around the blade lightly, feeling the cold bite of the metal against his skin. It sent a shiver up the back of his neck, and twisted a knot in the pit of his stomach.

He hated blades.

He hated them so fucking much.

Sherlock turned on his heel and returned to the armchair, back straight, shoulders squared, chin up.

Compensating.

“Er… D’you want me to get you a cup of tea or something?” He slipped the blade into his pocket. He’d have to deal with it later. Right now he needed to focus his whole attention on the situation.

The detective regarded him thoughtfully, and then shook his head.

John caught the subtle clench of the jaw, the fingertips slipped up under his sleeve, the way he sat curled up on himself tightly.

This was killing him.

And it was obviously taking an enormous amount of energy to pretend that it wasn’t.

He bit his lip and walked to the couch, settling himself so he could look over at Sherlock, close enough to be reassuring but not so close as to crowd him, which was a difficult judgement to make.

After a while he bit his lip and rested his chin in his palm, watching the silent struggle.

“Sherlock? –No, I’m not going to shut up now, thanks.” He dismissed the mumbled rejection stoically and went on. “I want to help.”

The detective rolled over so he could fix those guarded eyes on him again, the pupils of which were constricted with distress. “You are helping.”

“Not as much as I could be. You texted me because you needed somebody. I don’t want to just sit here now and watch you try to do this all by yourself.”

Sherlock’s teeth were gritted. “I don’t _try._ I _do._ And I don’t _need_ anyone. I am all that I require.”

_Sherlock Holmes._

_The closest thing to an island any man could ever be._

_But the tide has to turn some time._

“Liar.”

He blinked and frowned at John, not quite sure he’d heard him right. “What did you—“

“Sherlock. You don’t have to protect yourself from me.” _Oh, he’d struck a chord there._ “I’m just trying to help you. That’s all I’m trying to do. Maybe that doesn’t sound very plausible to you, but it’s the truth. I’m just a normal human being; I do some things simply because I care about somebody, and I don’t have any ulterior motives. Let me help you.”

John could feel Sherlock staring at him, his intense gaze burning holes in him. But there was something approaching innocent confusion in his eyes now. Maybe his walls were cracking slightly…?

Sherlock took a few minutes, lips parted and then closed again as he faltered, for once in his life.

“Are you okay?” John leaned forward and spoke gently.

“…You care about me?”

John sat frozen on the couch, staring at the detective in astonishment that momentarily stole his voice and crumpled his train of thought into a tight wad of unintelligible garbage.

How could he…

Wasn’t it obvious…?

He’d thought for sure…

But he really didn’t…

“Sher… Well, yeah. Of course I do. You’re my best friend in the whole world, Sherlock. I’ve said that before. What did you think I…?”

But Sherlock wasn’t responding. His wide eyes were locked on John’s face, unblinking, and the seconds stretched out into long minutes.

“Sherlock…?”

Still no answer.

John leaned forward again, half tempted to wave a hand in front of his face. “Sherlock, are you okay?”

When he finally seemed to break out of the daze he blinked and looked down at his hands a little unsteadily, his brows still furrowed.

“Do you want to tell me what the hell that was about?”

“I…” He glanced up at John. “I mean… I just didn’t think…”

_A speechless Holmes?_

_What was the world coming to?_

“I didn’t expect anyone would… could…” He swallowed. “You looked serious.”

“That’s because I was serious. And I still am. You are, honestly, my best friend.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but this time it wasn’t snarky; instead he seemed completely out of his element. “I… I thought you were only saying that because of your instincts as a doctor… To try to put me at ease… Or something… And I didn’t expect…”

“You—what? How could you think—?! Why would you doubt that? That’s just—“

_Oh…_

_Oh._

All this time, it hadn’t been _Sherlock_ who was ignorant because he had no idea how much of a rude, insulting prick he could be—

—It had truly been _everyone else_ who was ignorant.

Because they didn’t realize that _he knew._

He _knew_ he lacked the skills necessary to get along with human beings without conflict. He _knew_ he pushed people away. He _knew_ he wasn’t the most likable person on the planet.

_He knew people generally couldn’t stand him._

And he had never expected anyone could _possibly_ find him to be best friend material.

He’d thought John had been lying to him.

All this time.

That would explain a lot, actually.

Too much.

 

_Sherlock Holmes._

_So very close to humanity, and yet so very, very far._

_The most isolated man alive._


	12. Under Control

“For a genius, you can be so incredibly thick sometimes.” John put his face in his hands and sighed heavily. “I’m sorry… But it’s true. All this time…”

“I couldn’t help but—“

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault. It isn’t criticism.” He lifted his head and looked at him again, blinking hard.

Sherlock looked highly uncomfortable, especially now that John had started tearing up.

_Why did humans have to do that…?_

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

“Sorry for what?” Sherlock brought his knees up to his chest on the chair and wrapped his arms around them defensively.

“For… Everything you never had.”

“What do you mean?” His voice was short and tight, trying to remain unaffected. “I had what I needed.”

John shook his head. “You think you did, but you didn’t know. You must have missed out on so much…”

The detective clearly disliked the idea of not knowing something, and he scowled.

Not his fault.

“Sorry…” John cleared his throat and glanced pointedly at Sherlock’s arms. “Do you still feel like you want to…?”

He considered quietly for a moment. “Maybe…”

“Well, now that we’ve confirmed that I do, in fact, care about you, let me help. Honestly help.”

After a few more moments Sherlock nodded slowly.

 

+++++++++++++++

 

The buzzing of the doorbell caught Sherlock mid-sentence. He had moved to stretch out on the couch beside John, and was in the middle of explaining the solutions to cold cases the doctor would ask him about as he found them on the internet.

It was really quite extraordinary, and the distraction and praise seemed to be doing wonders for his mood.

He was just about to explain who killed Marilee Burt in 1970 when he was interrupted.

Damn.

John was really getting into it.

He groaned and heaved himself up off the couch. “Mrs. Hudson’s not home, so I guess I’ll get it…”

He was aware of Sherlock’s eyes on his back, and then the detective sighed and rolled over into the cushions.

Not a sad sigh this time.

Just impatient.

Just… Sherlock.

John suppressed a little smile as he went to the door. It felt good to finally see that same old bad attitude again—a statement that he knew was completely insane, but it was true all the same.

But the smile disappeared when he opened the door to find Mycroft Holmes standing there. The appearance of the elder Holmes usually heralded the arrival of trouble in some form or another shortly thereafter, or a case.

Of course, there wasn’t much difference between the two most of the time.

“I would enquire if this is a bad time, but I’m afraid either way I would have to insist that I speak with you.” Mycroft shot him a polite smile.

“Uh…” John glanced back into the flat, where Sherlock still hadn’t moved. “I guess I’ve got a minute.”

As they mounted the steps Sherlock finally sat up and assumed an uninterested posture, directing his eyes toward the window, determined to ignore his brother.

“Have a seat, then.” John gestured loosely to the chairs, and Mycroft nodded in thanks and settled himself in the armchair, legs crossed and hands clasped over his knee.

“Now. You know I don’t dilly-dally, and there’s no point in pleasantries now, so I’ll just jump right into it.”

John glanced over at Sherlock, still sitting beside him, and still as resolute as ever.

“Certain things have… come to my attention.”

Oh.

_Of course…_

“I would have come by sooner, but the situation seemed to be under control, for the most part, until recently.”

John couldn’t contain the scornful sound that tore itself out of his throat, despite Mycroft’s raised eyebrow and Sherlock’s sidelong glance.

“Sorry, but—what part of that was _‘under control’?_ I thought I was going to have a heart attack every time I came home from work! You didn’t even…” He was going to say _‘come visit him in the hospital,’_ but something told him that wouldn’t be accepted very well by either Holmes.

It was suddenly infuriating, the way Mycroft looked down his nose at them. The way he sat there so cool and calm and collected—

—And why _hadn’t_ he showed up when Sherlock was admitted and given an emergency blood transfusion? Surely he knew about it. He knew everything about everyone, or at least that’s the way it seemed sometimes.

Why hadn’t he been there to support his little brother?

This was exactly what John had been talking about before— _everything you never had._

“I apologize, but there didn’t seem to be any immediate danger that I did not believe you capable of handling.”

Oh.

Mycroft went on, “However, now I do find myself concerned with the way things are going. And I’m afraid to say that it might be time to do something about it.”

Sherlock tensed noticeably.

“You’re concerned _now?_ Things are getting better, Mycroft!” John’s fists clenched in his lap. “I don’t know what you think you’re seeing, but I’m pretty sure Sherlock’s alright for now! He’s clean!”

Mycroft tilted his head slightly and gazed at him.

“And you believed him?”

 

 


	13. Shut Up And Hug Me

He did believe him.

He did.

He did believe in Sherlock Holmes.

_But should he?_

Sherlock’s head had snapped around to glare at his brother with eyes so cold they burned.

“Yes.” John kept his voice under control, for now. “He said he was, and I believe him.”

The elder Holmes leaned back in his chair and regarded them slowly, regally, but there was also something very, very tired about his manner. “This is a very old habit of my brother’s. It’s gone on so long that it’s become second nature, rather a friend, and is likely not something he will be very interested in stopping. He, like myself, can be very manipulative when he stands to lose something.”

John felt the sofa shift beside him as Sherlock stood up. He continued to glare at Mycroft with a look so intense that it made even John uncomfortable.

“Mycroft. _Shut up._ ”

The standoff stretched out for several long minutes as Mycroft looked back up at him steadily, and John stared from one to the other.

“I came here for the sole purpose of ensuring—“

“I said shut up. You can both stop talking as if I can’t hear you. Secondly, I have done _nothing_ for over two weeks! I _am_ clean. Despite what you may believe, I do have self-control.”

That sounded as honest as the first time Sherlock had told him he’d stopped.

But when was the last time Mycroft had been wrong?

Did that mean…?

No. He didn’t want to think that.

Sherlock didn’t lie to him. He wouldn’t just use him like that.

“I said nothing about your self-control, though I would like to. You claim to have ‘done nothing,’ but as I understand it John found you high out of your mind barely a week ago. I would not consider that ‘nothing.’ If that is your definition, then I can only wonder what else may be included.”

Mycroft had a point…

Sherlock blinked and glanced away for a second. “That… was an alternative.”

“Pardon?”

He cleared his throat and set his jaw. “A last-ditch effort to avoid doing… it.”

“Hardly a step up.”  

“There weren’t many ‘step ups’ available at the time.” Sherlock’s reply was snarky and genuine—not the sort of thing he said when he was trying to lie or persuade.

Maybe…

“And you expect me to believe you because…?”

“Because it’s the truth. You haven’t slept well for a while, I see. Could it be that you’re getting antsy because you worry you can’t control every detail about my life now? Your anxiety is making you delusional.” 

“I am anything but delusional, Sherlock. I aim only to make sure you don’t end up dead on the floor and ruin the landlady’s carpet.”

Sherlock went white, and John stood quickly before either of them could say any more. “Okay, break it up! You’re both delusional! Am I seriously the only one here who can think rationally for once?”

That one earned him two very surprised stares.

He took a deep breath and continued. _He just better be right about this._ “Mycroft—you care about him a lot, I can see that. But you’re going about it the wrong way. You’re so caught up in making sure he isn’t lying that you’re convinced he is. And Sherlock, I know he’s overbearing, but he is just trying to help.” He paused, suddenly uncomfortable with giving such a little speech. “I can’t believe I’m having to explain this.”

The brother’s glanced at each other, for the moment united in their astonishment, though that remained understated, because, well, _they were the Holmes._

John couldn’t tell if they were convinced, but at least neither of them was spitting harsh words at him about it. Yet.

He crossed his arms.

This was ridiculous.

Both of them must care about each other, they were brothers for god’s sake—but they were too stubborn to admit it, or to show it in any way. They seemed determined to one-up each other in their elaborate ‘I-don’t-give-a-shit’ display.

It was probably the stupidest thing John had ever seen. _Time for a change._

“Mycroft, stand up. I’m sick of this.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Am I being asked to leave, then…?”

“No. Just get up.” He turned to Sherlock. “And you, stay right there.”

Sherlock seemed torn between glaring at Mycroft and shooting searching glances at John. When the two of them were standing next to each other, save for the deliberate space between them, John nodded and took a breath, arms still crossed stubbornly.

“John, what are you even—“

“You two are brothers, and you need to start acting like it. I don’t care if it kills you, you’re going to hug each other.”

From the looks on their faces, maybe it _would_ kill them.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, _come on!_ It’s not that hard! People do it all the time!”

They spoke at the same time. “I’m not sure, in our situation—“

“ _No._ ”

“I’m not taking no for answer.” John tapped his foot impatiently and squared his shoulders.

Honestly, their expressions were ridiculous.

And so was their attitude.

But god dammit, they were just going to have to get over themselves.

“I’m waiting.”

“I’ll walk out.” Sherlock muttered warningly.

“Do that and I’ll let Mycroft do whatever he was planning on to ‘help you.’”

“It’s not as if I would let—“

John rolled his eyes and gave him a firm shove forward, and Sherlock found himself face to face with his brother, stumbling into him so Mycroft was forced to catch him before they both went tumbling over backwards.

Sherlock’s face was ashen, and Mycroft, too, looked decidedly out of his depth.

“Proper hug. That’s all I’m asking for. You two never show each other you care, and you both need it.”

They hesitated, and seemed to decide there was no other way out.

It wasn’t exactly what John would call a ‘proper hug’; it was uncomfortable and quick, and Sherlock had no idea what to do with his hands and ended up just patting his back awkwardly.

When it was over they separated promptly, each trying desperately to regain his stoic composure without looking each other in the eyes.

But…

At least it was something.

 


	14. Satan's 5th Symphony

“D’you want any tea?”

“No.”

“Do you want anything at all?”

“No.”

“Can we talk, then?”

“No.”

“Can you say _anything_ other than ‘no’?”

Sherlock rolled over on the couch to look at him, and spoke slowly. “ _No._ ”

“Well, thank god we got that sorted.” John raised his eyebrows and went back to trying to read. “Real mystery, that was…”

He could feel Sherlock’s eyes lingering on him, but he decided to ignore it.

Two could play at this game.

A few minutes later the couch cushions shifted, and he could hear the rustle of the detective’s dressing gown as he got up.

Not going to lift his eyes…

John nearly jumped out of his skin and jerked upright in his chair as the first shrieking note was drawn out on the violin.

As the next uncoordinated chords squealed their way off the strings John found himself gritting his teeth and gripping his book tighter.

This was all just to annoy him.

It was supposed to be payback.

Mustn’t give in.

_Mustn’t._

_If he kept reading, and didn’t pay him any mind, he’d get bored and stop._

‘ **Chapter three: The Recognition** ’

Another mangled screech from the strings.

‘ **From this intense consciousness of being the object of severe and universal observation, the wearer—** ‘

That was almost a tune, there.

Almost.

‘ **The wearer…** ’

_If Satan composed music._

‘ **Chapter…** ’

_Where was he again…?_

‘ **Chapt—** GOD, SHERLOCK, _D’YOU MIND?!_ ”

He’d half thought nobody would be able to hear him over the racket, but the silence that followed was quick and most definitely for him.

Sherlock observed him serenely over the instrument, bow still poised. “Oh, do pardon me. Did I… _make you uncomfortable?_ ”

“You… Well you’ve…” John shut the book and tossed it onto the table, sitting back and setting his jaw. “Yeah. Yeah you’ve pretty well done that.”

“Mm.” He shrugged absently. “That was… easier than expected. Oh well…”

“This is about the hug, isn’t it? Be straight with me here. It is, isn’t it?”

“Why should I affirm it? You don’t need that. You seemed to be doing pretty well on deductions yourself, yesterday.”

“Sherlock, don’t…” John pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t what? I’m conversing.”

“No, you’re arguing.”

"Oh, well of course you'd be able to tell, wouldn't you? You're the master of human interaction, a great judge of motive and conversation—"

"Sherlock."

"—Ex army doctor and personal psychiatrist, healer of all wounds, peace-maker between warring nations—"

" _Sherlock._ "

"—So of course, there's no use at all trying to hide anything from _you._ "

"Stop. Just stop." John sighed heavily. "Look... I'm sorry it was that big a deal to you. I know it was uncomfortable, but I really just wanted to help, so I thought..."

“Don’t try that.”

“Try what?”

“Think.”

“You know what?” John pushed himself up from his chair and stomped across the room to the stairs. “I have better things to do than listen to you mock me. I said I was sorry, and I am, but you’re… you’re just…”

Sherlock tilted his head inquiringly.

“You’re a real dickhead, sometimes.”

“Oh, that’s a new one.” Sherlock feigned interest and leaned back on the sofa, where he’d settled again.

“I said sorry. Now shut up.” 

 


	15. Still Empty

When John came downstairs twenty minutes later Sherlock was sitting up, and glanced over as he reached the bottom step.

_Why was John wearing his nicest shirt?_

_He’d shaved… he’d even done something to his hair._

_And… yes. A deep breath confirmed that he’d put on cologne. Too much, and a cheap brand, clearly._

_He lacked taste, but he tried._

“Where are you going?” Sherlock frowned, glancing at his shoes.

_Recently shined._

_He wanted to make a good impression._

“Out.”

Oh, so John was still hung up on being cross with him. _Alright then._

“I can see that. Who are you so dressed up for?”

“Not you, obviously.” John went for his coat, making sure his wallet was in the pocket before he put it on.

_Wherever he was going, he was paying._

Sherlock tilted his head and let his eyes follow his blogger around the room as he moved about, getting ready.

_It was getting late, and John hadn’t eaten dinner yet._

_He must be expecting to eat somewhere else._

At last John stopped by the door and looked back at him. He sighed.

“I’ve got a date tonight. Out, because I clearly can’t bring her over here with the flat looking like it is. I may or may not be coming back tonight, so don’t wait up for me.” He opened the door and was halfway out before he leaned back into the room with a resigned look. “But, Sherlock… will you be alright?”

_No._

“Yes. You’ve left me alone plenty of times before; don’t think you have to _babysit_ me.”

John rolled his eyes and almost smiled. “Of course not. I just… you know…”

“Go on. I’ll be here.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively and rolled over on the sofa, waiting until he heard the snap of the door closing to drop his hand.

_A date._

_Despite the cheap cologne, the rest of John’s personal grooming showed effort, so it must be serious._

_Someone who captured his attention._

The flat was getting too quiet.

Sherlock sat up again and got to his feet, going to retrieve his violin and settling it on his shoulder. The solid feel of it in his hands was reassuring somehow, and the slight vibration of the chords through the wood was pleasantly comforting against his fingertips.

Time passed faster when he was composing, but not fast enough.

After a while the bow slowed on the strings, and he looked around the room.

_Still empty._

_He’d half hoped…_

Sherlock took in a deep breath and let it out again in a sigh that sounded louder than normal in the vacant flat. _He could still detect that horrible cologne…_

_This was how it always started, wasn’t it?_

_A date._

_Someone else._

He shook his head and lay down the violin on the table. There was the book John had been reading earlier…

He flipped it open and examined the pages half interestedly.

_The Scarlet Letter…?_

_Really, John…?_

_Didn’t you read that one in school or something?_

He tossed the book back down on the table with a little huff and went to the kitchen to start a pot of tea. Sherlock stood there for a little while, just watching steam condense on the kettle.

_This really was the beginning, wasn’t it…_

He opened the cabinet and reached up to retrieve a mug, not even looking as he did, having rather zoned out for a minute.

_But John cared about him._

_He’d said so, point blank._

_And he’d told Sherlock to come to him if things ever felt…_

The click of the tab on the kettle brought him back to reality, blinking. He was still holding the mug.

_John didn’t want him to cut any more._

_Why, exactly?_

_Because he cared? That was what that meant, right?_

“’I may or may not come back tonight…’” He echoed John’s words under his breath as he poured the water into the mug and finished making his tea, a little distractedly.

_The date was serious._

_This one might last._

He took a bit longer than normal in stirring the tea, watching the little milky auburn vortex swirl after the wake of the spoon.

_John left a lot when his girlfriends got serious._

_That meant the flat was quiet a lot._

_It also meant Sherlock did a lot of work on his own._

_It always started like that._

_Always._

He took his mobile from his pocket and checked it, though he knew there wouldn’t be any new messages.

It was almost 10 thirty now… past the time John would have been trying to get him to eat something…

_But why bother?_

What John didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and besides, the thought of eating anything made him a little nauseous at the moment.

So instead he brought the tea over to the kitchen table, where it slowly got colder and colder as it waited for its maker to remember to actually drink it.

After nearly another hour of tinkering around with the microscope and the collection of Petri dishes on the table, he glanced up again, pausing to listen carefully in case John had somehow snuck in without him noticing.

But he hadn’t, clearly.

_Still empty._

Sherlock sighed and scratched at his left arm.

_Was it always this quiet?_

_Would it be considered rude to call John in the middle of a date? He could just say he forgot…_

_But then, John would most certainly be furious…_

_He was always angry about silly things…_

_John wasn’t going to leave him._

He stopped and considered for a few minutes.

_He wasn’t. Was he?_

_No, he’d made a pact._

_But… it was starting… The same way it had always started, with everyone else he’d known…_

_…With the discovery of someone new, who wasn’t completely lost when he was just trying to have a normal conversation, like normal people do._

_Somebody who didn’t cut himself._

_Somebody who didn’t make John cross all the time._

Sherlock growled in frustration and pushed the microscope away from him forcefully. The mug overbalanced and teetered on the edge of the table for a few seconds before it tipped over and went crashing to the linoleum, splashing cold tea and splinters of ceramic across the floor.

He just stood there, staring down at the mess without expression.

It spread slowly, a little puddle of tannin and milk and teacup slivers.

_Very sharp slivers._


	16. Morning, Sherlock

John’s back hurt.

The couch hadn’t been very kind to him.

But he’d pretended it hadn’t bothered him, because… well, he didn’t honestly know why. It wouldn’t have made any difference to his date, he knew, but perhaps he was just trying to be agreeable.

After living with Sherlock for so long one learned to take the path of least resistance as often as possible.

He’d said goodbye, and thanked her for breakfast and the use of her shower, before heading out to catch a cab. The morning was bright and bitter, and he soon found that his nose and fingertips were stinging just from the short walk from cab to doorstep.

He took a moment at the top of the steps to the flat, telling himself he was resting, but all the same trying to convince himself that there wouldn’t be some horrific scene to greet him as soon as he walked in the door.

Coming home was always a bit scary, now.

He just never knew.

John turned the knob and pushed the door open, letting himself inside. “Sherlock?”

No answer…

He looked around, taking stock of the living room: empty.

Hall: empty.

Bedroom: empty.

Kitchen: …Sherlock?

Sherlock didn’t move from where he was seated on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets and knees drawn up, his head resting on his arms.

_Could he possibly be…?_

John knelt beside the detective quietly, trying to assess the situation, but Sherlock didn’t stir, and all he could hear were his soft, even breaths, slightly muffled by his sleeve.

Well.

John sat back on his heels and bit back a smile.

“ _How can you even sleep like this…?_ ” He murmured, glancing around the kitchen.

Sherlock’s experiments still littered the table and countertops, and John tried to pretend he couldn’t see the collection of previously frozen fingers.

_Who knew what the hell those were supposed to be for._

He straightened up and tiptoed around Sherlock, making himself a cup of strong coffee.

It was already so hard to convince the detective to sleep regularly, and now that he was out like a light on the kitchen floor it seemed a shame to wake him.

But would it be proper to just leave him down there?

John leaned against the counter and considered this as he sipped his coffee, looking down at Sherlock’s bowed head and messy curls.

_How had he been doing, anyway…?_

_It had been a while since he’d opened up much._

_He’d been a proper arse recently, in fact._

_But he looked so peaceful now…_

_Soft, even._

“I’m worried about you, you git.” John half whispered it over the rim of his mug. He knew Sherlock couldn’t hear him, and that was even better, because he needed to say it even though he knew it would probably be taken as annoying, perhaps even nagging.

“You’re a pain in the arse, but I wish you’d talk to me.” He took another sip. “It isn’t good for a human being to bottle everything up the way you do. And yes, you _are_ a human too.” He chuckled under his breath, imagining what the detective’s reaction would have been, had he been awake.

But the chuckle slowly faded on his lips as reality set in on him again.

“…I read something about this, once. Something about pain. How much of it you have to be in to… do the stuff you did. I just wish you’d talk to me.”

Sherlock hadn’t stirred. His shoulders rose and fell gently with each breath, and John noted that even with his long legs, he occupied a surprisingly small space when curled up like he was.

_Defensive._

That’s what his position looked like.

John set his empty mug in the sink quietly and tried to decide whether or not he should at least get him a blanket, or just let him be and go get dressed.

A sudden mumble from the floor saved him that decision, quickly followed by a bang as Sherlock sat up quickly and bumped his head against the cabinets behind him.

“Wha—‘m not—“

He tried to stifle a snigger, and busied himself at the sink again. “Morning, Sherlock.”

Sherlock squinted up at him. “…John…? I thought you weren’t coming back tonight…”

“I didn’t. It’s morning. You fell asleep on the floor there.”

He frowned, looking doubtful.

_John didn’t blame him._

“You must have been pretty tired. I’ve never seen you conk out like that before, especially not on the linoleum.”

“I was… experimenting.” Sherlock ran a hand through his curls, messing them up even further.

“I’m sure you were.” John filled the kettle again and set it on to boil. “I’ll make you tea, if you’d like. Breakfast?”

“What do you want, John?”

John couldn’t help but sigh. “I don’t want anything. I’m just doing this because I care, remember?”

_Thank goodness that shut him up, for the moment._

The only other explanation he had was _‘I feel sorry for you again,’_ and that likely wouldn’t have been very well received.

“I don’t want any _tea._ ” Sherlock pulled himself up by the edge of the counter, obviously stiff and achy from his night on the floor. He stretched and cracked his neck, looking around the room as if to reorient himself with it.

“Then I won’t make you any. Eggs sound good?”

“Of course it doesn’t sound good. Two, no pepper.”

John rolled his eyes and tried not to grin as he set about making Sherlock’s breakfast. Aside from the uncomfortable sofa and the bitter cold, this morning wasn’t turning out too badly.

Sherlock wandered out into the living room, and John could hear him moving about, probably stepping right over the coffee table instead of around it on his way to the couch.

But just as he’d almost finished cooking the eggs he heard Sherlock’s mobile ringing, and after a short conversation there was more movement and then Sherlock came marching past him to the door, throwing on his coat as he went.

“Forget breakfast, John. I have a case.”

 


	17. Freak

  “Sherlock, wait—“

John had switched off the stove and grabbed his coat as fast as he could, and hurried after the detective.

_It was too early in the morning for this…_

Down at the curb he just barely caught the cab Sherlock had hailed before it pulled away. He let his head flop back onto the seat and tried to catch his breath. “What is this all about, then?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from his mobile. “A corpse was found in an abandoned flat near Saint Bart’s hospital. Apparent suicide, but there’s one problem.”

“Which is?”

“There’s no blood.”

As soon as the cab pulled up at the crime scene Sherlock was up and out the door, with John still trying to keep up.

John heard Anderson’s voice before he saw him, blocking their way with an arm outstretched.

“What are you doing here?” Anderson scowled at the both of them, clearly none too pleased to be out working so early either.

“I received a call, from DI Lestrade.” Sherlock’s expression remained impassive. “Something about _‘please help us, we’re out of our depth. Again.’_ ”

Anderson rolled his eyes. “Yeah right. Lestrade’s busy this morning, and he couldn’t be out here. So I’m warning you, just do your job, or I’ll—“

“Yes, thank you, moving on…” Sherlock pushed past him and headed up the stairs to the empty flat.

John cast one last look at Anderson and shrugged before he following him upstairs.

The room was bare, with patchy wallpaper and an old carpet dusted with grime. In the centre of the room lay the body, face up and very obviously dead, judging by the gray pallor of her skin and the countless slices along her arms and legs.

But it was true: there was no blood.

_No blood at all._

John just stood there for several minutes, glancing over at Sherlock, who seemed to have taken pause at the sight of the wounds.

“Are you okay?” John whispered, so none of the forensics team could hear him.

“Yes, of course I’m okay.”

“We don’t have to take this one, if you don’t want to.”

“I said I’m _fine._ ” Sherlock cleared his throat and knelt beside the corpse to examine it closer.

A case was a case, apparently.

 

+++++++++++

  

_He just stood there, staring down at the mess without expression._

_It spread slowly, a little puddle of tannin and milk and teacup slivers._

**_Very sharp slivers._ **

_Sherlock took a deep breath and leaned back against the counter, glaring up at the ceiling._

_Not fair…_

**_Not fair…_ **

_Too easy…_

_But…_

_He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to make the itching need go away._

_John would be upset._

_He’d tell him not to do this._

_He’d be angry._

_He wouldn’t understand._

_Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again the room felt darker._

**_All his fault..._ **

+++++++++++++

 

“Sherlock?” John had knelt on the other side of the corpse, slipping on latex gloves so he could help with the inspection.

“Hmm?”

“If this is murder, then… why go to all the trouble of… well, cutting her up like that? This is way more than it should take to kill someone.”

“ _Don’t you think I know that?”_ Sherlock glanced up at him with an intense look, and John lowered his eyes. “He clearly wanted to send a message. She was dead before he made the first slice.”

“That’s what I thought, but… He?”

“Oh, don’t make me explain this! For god’s sake—“

“Sherlock. We’re not all geniuses here. Stop bloody showing off and tell me.”

“There’s no blood here, meaning she was killed elsewhere, somehow drained of her blood, sliced up, and then transported here to be displayed on the floor. You’ll notice that there are no less than fifteen steps up to this room, and there is not even a hair on the steps. That means he didn’t drag her up here, he carried her. And in order to do that, he would have to be strong. So, by balance of probability, the killer is most likely a man.”

“Some women are pretty strong. You could be wrong there.”

“Oh, _I don’t think so._ ”

 

+++++++++++++

****

_Sherlock knelt by the shattered teacup, taking deep breaths. He looked down at his hands, which were shaking slightly._

_That must be because he hadn’t eaten today._

_It had to be…_

_The spilled tea had run into the little grooves along the linoleum floor, and was still spreading, slower and slower._

_Time, too, seemed to have slowed to a snail’s pace; it felt as if the minute hand on the kitchen clock only moved every fifteen minutes, and when it did it was extraordinarily loud._

_12:01 AM._

**_Tick._ **

_12:02 AM._

_He took another deep breath and reached down to pick a shard of teacup from the mess. It was still dripping, and he shook it off and held it tightly._

_It felt thin and razor-edged._

_A little jagged, too._

_He’d missed the feel of something so sharp in his hand, something so… solid and reassuring._

_Something he hated so much, but couldn’t imagine not having… Something he couldn’t live without._

**_Tick._ **

+++++++++++

“So he’s trying to send a message. What is it he’s saying?” John straightened up and pulled off his gloves.

Sherlock paused, lips parted slightly, obviously thinking hard, and then looked up at him. “Me.”

“What?”

“It’s for me. He knows.”

“Wait a minute. Sherlock, hold up. What are you talking about?”

“It’s _him_.”

John stared at him for several moments before he turned away and paced a few steps, giving the baseboard a sharp kick. “ _SHIT!_ _Dammit!_ _How does he know?!_ And how do you know it’s him?! Are you sure?”

“ _Look at it._ It’s exactly like…” He glanced down at his arms, and quickly looked away again. “And besides, she’s wearing a men’s suit jacket. A very specific brand. _Westwood._ It’s obviously a setup—he knew I’d notice that.”

“Is that—?”

“Yes. Moriarty wears Westwood.”

 

++++++++++++

 

_Why were his sleeves so damn hard to unbutton?_

_His stupid fingers wouldn’t stop shaking enough to get the cuff unbuttoned so he could roll it up._

_They just wouldn’t._

_Deep breath…_

_There. He’d got the first one._

_Then the second…_

_Finally._

_He stared down at his exposed arm, so pale in the fluorescent lighting. Sherlock clenched his teeth, hard, and tried not to let John into his head right now._

_That just made him feel guiltier._

_But why should he feel guilty in the first place…? He deserved this…_

_He did…_

_And he needed it, badly…_

++++++++++++++

 

“Well why isn’t there any blood? How did he even do that?” John crossed his arms and looked down at the body.

“You’re a doctor. You figure it out.”

“Er… I would say he just drained the blood, but…”

“It’s too clean.”

“Yeah. That. You have a theory, though, don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded. “Look at the gray colour of her skin. It looks almost… defrosted.”

John had a sudden flashback to the fingers on the kitchen table back at the flat, which were exactly the same colour.

_Of course._

“So he just tossed her in a deep freeze for a couple of hours?”

“Of course not, that would take too long. A liquid nitrogen bath is more likely.”

 

++++++++++++++

 

_The first blood always sent a shiver down his spine._

_The first, quick slice of the blade across his skin was always the most satisfying._

_The slight tingle as the blood welled up in little droplets, and then the pain._

_It stung this time, more than a real blade ever had._

_And his shaking hand did nothing to make the cuts cleaner._

_First of all he just needed to break the skin._

_Careless, parallel lines in deep scarlet._

_Just to make the need go away._

_To make the thoughts stop._

_To calm his heart._

_The blood ran down his arm and dripped from his fingertips into the auburn pool on the floor, staining it in vivid red swirls._

_He’d have to clean it up later, when he could think straight._

_He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, hissing as the shard went particularly deep._

_There…_

_That was helping…_

_Sherlock stopped and looked down at what he’d done. There was still a space near his upper arm…_

_An idea was slowly forming itself in his mind, something to fill that space, something that would be just perfect…_

_He set the edge of the shard against it and pressed, dragging it down, letting the blood spill, then turning it and repeating the step two more times._

_One letter down._

_Four more to carve._

+++++++++++++

 

“So Moriarty’s threatening you? Or at least letting you know that he knows about… that. What do we tell Lestrade?”

“We tell him the facts.” Sherlock straightened up, taking off his own gloves and heading downstairs.

John hurried after him, determined not to be left behind again.

The entire drive to the station was a bit awkward, as John felt he should say something about the body and the message Moriarty had left him, but he wasn’t sure exactly what.

Sherlock ignored him for the most part anyway, apparently lost in thought.

As they went inside and approached Lestrade’s office they ran into Sally Donovan, who, it seemed, had been waiting for their report.

She looked at Sherlock and hurried over as fast as her heels would let her.

“ _Finally!_ So what’s the word, Freak?”

 

+++++++++++

_Freak._

++++++++++

 

It happened before John could stop himself.

Before he could think he’d reared back—and then his fist connected with Donovan’s face.

 

 

 

 


	18. Call Me Back

“Come on, John.” Greg leaned over the desk and looked at him wearily. “Just explain to me exactly why you punched my sergeant, and then maybe— _maybe_ —I can talk her out of pressing charges.”

John fidgeted in the chair, clearly uncomfortable, and not very willing to meet his eye.

Lestrade sighed heavily. “This better be a bloody good reason, too.”

“She called Sherlock ‘Freak.’”

“I know that was uncalled for, and I’m sorry, but she’s called him that before and you didn’t hit her. What’s changed?”

John put his face in his palm and mumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“ _He’s hurting himself, Greg._ ” He lifted his head and tried to look at him. “Sherlock. And she’s _exactly why…_ Scars all up and down his… And I can’t even… I…” He sucked in a deep breath and let it out through clenched teeth, trying to hold his cool. “I can’t… _do_ anything for him. I can’t help him… I _can’t_ … And when Sally said… when she called him a… and he didn’t even… _say anything_ , I just…”

Lestrade was silent for a minute, staring at him, his brow furrowed. “You’re serious?”

“Of course I’m serious! I wouldn’t have told you, but—I don’t know what to _do_ anymore! I don’t like to hit women, either, but she just—I don’t know—“ He paused for breath. “I couldn’t control it. She hurt him.”

“Sherlock’s really…?” He tilted his head, and glanced down at the desk to avoid John’s eyes. “He’s… He’s really started that again?”

John’s head snapped up. “’Again?’ _You knew?_ ”

“Well, I mean, I’ve known him for a pretty good while, since he started helping the Yard out on cases, so… Yeah. Yeah I’ve picked him up off a couple floors, in my time. Didn’t think it would come back like this, though…”

“You mean to tell me… All this time… You knew this about him,” John nearly had to bite his tongue. “And you didn’t tell me. Hmm?”

“Well, I—“

“ _You_ knew. And _I_ didn’t. His _best friend._ ”

“I didn’t think he’d—“

“Are there ANY OTHER life threatening problems he’s got that I don’t know about?! _ANYTHING_ else you should tell me?! How the _hell_ am I supposed to be of any good around here if NOBODY TELLS ME _SHIT?!_ ”

“Look, I know you’re upset, alright? And I’m sorry, but I didn’t tell you because… that just seemed like something… if he wanted you to know, he’d tell you himself.”

“And look where that’s got us! A bloody hospital stay and over a month of lost sleep, on my part! I knew he was an addict the first day, I just didn’t know _what else_ he was so stuck on! _A little warning would have been nice!_ ”

“What was I supposed to say? _‘John Watson, meet Sherlock Holmes. He’s a fucking genius who did cocaine and cut himself’_?!”

John let out a big breath and put his face back in his hands. “I’m sorry. Sorry… I’m just… under a lot of stress, recently.”

“I know…” Greg sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “You must be worried. I’ll try talking to Donovan for you.”

 

+++++++++++++

 

When he came out of Lestrade’s office Donovan was sitting in one of the chairs in the waiting room, holding an ice pack to her cheek. She looked up at him with a grimace. “Looking for your boyfriend?”

“For the last time— _I AM NOT GAY!_ ”

“Could have fooled me. You’re bloody protective.” She readjusted the ice pack and glowered at him. “Anyway, he left twenty minutes ago.”

“ _I don’t have time for this…_ ” John clenched his teeth and held up a finger pointedly, glaring directly into Donovan’s eyes. “Did you say _anything_ else to him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. _You hit me._ ”

“Just answer my question! Did you say any other horrible things to him while I was in there?”

She rolled her eyes and crossed her legs, leaning an elbow on the arm of the chair. “Jesus… you take the cake for biggest over-reaction I’ve seen so far, this year.”

“No, this is important! You—wouldn’t understand.”

“Well, no. I didn’t say _anything._ ” Sally settled into the chair and gave him a haughty, insolent look.

“I’m so done with this…” John turned on his heel and headed out to catch a cab.

Sherlock wasn’t there when he got back to the flat.

He checked all the rooms, even his own, but there was no sign of the detective anywhere.

_Where could he have…?_

John stopped in the middle of the living room and took out his mobile, dialling quickly.

It was probably just his over-wrought nerves, but he couldn’t help but worry.

_One ring._

_Two rings._

_Three._

_Four…_

**_Beep._ **

_‘Sherlock Holmes. Obviously busy; leave a message after the tone. Or not. I probably won’t check it.’_

“Sherlock. Where the hell are you? I thought we talked about you disappearing like this. Call me, when you get this, and… change your voicemail message already, you arse.”

He stood there for a few minutes after he’d hung up, looking down at his mobile.

_Come on, Sherlock…_

_Call back already…_

Finally he couldn’t stand the silence anymore, and dialled another number. He only had to wait for two and a half rings this time.

“Hello, Molly Hooper.”

“Hey, Molly, it’s John. Watson. You’re at work now, right? Listen, is Sherlock down there?”

“What? Um… no, I haven’t seen him since he came down to get those fingers last week. Sorry. Is… um… is it important? I mean, is he alright?”

“Yeah, yeah probably. I just… overprotective. That’s all. Just wondered where he was, since he’s not returned my calls. It’s probably fine. Thanks, I’ll talk to you later, maybe.”

The next twenty—or perhaps forty—minutes were spent alternately pacing from the window to the armchair and back again, and sitting with the mobile in his lap, willing it to make a sound.

When it finally did, John caught his breath and jolted in the chair.

**One new message:**

_The voicemail is fine. –SH_

He took a deep breath and let it out again, trying to force his heart rate back to normal.

Why was he so anxious, anyway…?

_Jesus Sherlock—you nearly gave me a heart attack! –JW_

_What did I do? –SH_

_You left me hanging for over half an hour! I was worried something had happened to you! –JW_

_It was only 37 minutes. I was unaware I needed to send in a report of my coordinates. Wouldn’t a GPS tracker be more efficient? –SH_

_That’s not what I meant… I just worried. –JW_

_About what? –SH_

_You. Obviously. I’ve said that. –JW_

“Don’t be. I was only doing a little shopping.”

He looked up as the door opened and Sherlock came in with a plastic bag in one hand and his mobile in the other.

John felt like letting himself fall face-first onto the couch and staying there all afternoon, not having to move another muscle. But instead he pushed himself up from the chair and faced Sherlock.

“ _You,_ doing shopping? Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?”

“Well, um… we were running a bit low on antiseptic and bandages, so…”

“Sherlock…”

The detective cleared his throat uneasily and turned away to put the bag on the kitchen table and begin to undo the knot in his scarf.

“Is this a… confession…?

“It’s… something of the sort, I suppose. Yes.”

_That couch was looking more and more inviting._

John stared at Sherlock’s back, still holding his mobile tightly. He took a hesitant step toward him. “Sherlock, you said… I mean, you promised you’d…”

“ _And I couldn’t do it!_ Okay? I couldn’t. I promised, and I failed, because I _always—_ ” He paused, looking down at his hands. “…It’s not even important.”

“Shut up. No, _shut up._ I punched a woman for you, back there. I’ve stayed _right here._ I have tried _so damn hard_ to help you, when I didn’t have to. So don’t you _dare_ say it isn’t important. Right? Don’t you _dare_ say that you aren’t important.”

Sherlock seemed frozen. Then he glanced back at him with a bewildered look in his eyes. “Why did you do that, anyway?”

“I… she was being cruel to you, again. It made me angry.”

“…Interesting… you felt anger on my behalf…?”

“Well, I’m tired of watching people act like shit toward my best friend and then watching you pretend like it doesn’t bother you! Is that really so strange?!” He looked back into Sherlock’s face, and then his shoulders slumped. “Of course it is, to you… You still don’t get it, do you…?”

Sherlock pulled his scarf the rest of the way off. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Yeah, that’s bullshit. Let’s see it.”

“No.”

“Sherlock, please. We’ve come this far, now I want to see if it needs treatment.”

“It doesn’t… I would know… I—“

John closed the space between them in a few steps. “I’m not playing around. Show me.”

Sherlock looked down at him hesitantly, and then set his jaw and took off his coat so he could unbutton his left cuff and pull up the sleeve.

John held him by the wrist and carefully examined the new damage in silence for several uncomfortable minutes. When he looked up at him again he met his eyes pointedly. “Are you _sure_ it doesn’t bother you?”

The recent cuts had just begun to heal, enough to give an idea of what they would look like once they became permanent scars, including the one word carved into his pale skin. The first and only word he’d ever engraved into his own flesh.

_‘Freak.’_


	19. When You're Ready

“ _Let go of me._ ” Sherlock pulled away and tugged his sleeve back down, turning his back again, and John let him.

“I… know this must be weird for you…”

“ _Shut up._ ”

“I care.”

“Go care about someone else! I don’t need your pity!” Sherlock drew himself up to his full height.

“That isn’t the way it works, Sherlock. And it’s not pity, it’s—”

“Disappointment.”

“No. Okay, maybe a little, but in myself, not you.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why would you be—“

“Because I couldn’t stop this! Because I couldn’t be enough to convince you that you’re not a… a freak, or anything else! Because I can’t do anything for my best friend. I’m…” He swallowed and looked anywhere but at him. “I suppose I’m getting more worked up over this than I’m supposed to be. But I can’t help that. Because I’ve always seen this sort of thing from the outside. Patients, stories from other people, but… I’ve never been so _helpless._ And I hate it. You’re my friend, that means I care about you, and you’re… well, you’re hurting. Now, I know you’ll want to know exactly _why_ I care so much, but I… I couldn’t tell you. I don’t know. I just do.”

Sherlock was quiet, his eyes lowered uncomfortably, clearly perplexed by John’s words.

John took another deep breath. “Look. I’ve been thinking, a lot, and I’ve come to a conclusion.”

The detective looked up, as if trying to read his next sentences in the furrow of his brow, or the set of his jaw.

_He wouldn’t find anything there._

“I think… All this time, I’ve been trying to help you. Myself. I’ve been trying to make you stop, because I couldn’t handle watching you do that. I even took all the blades out of the flat, as if that would really do anything. I wanted to force you to quit. But I couldn’t do anything about the causes. And I read, somewhere, that one of the first stages of recovery is that… You have to _want_ to get better. I didn’t give you the chance.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but John cut him off. “Don’t. Okay? Just for a second. This stuff is hard for me. Let me finish.”

For a moment it looked like he wouldn’t, but then he shut his mouth and looked down again.

“I guess, what I’m getting at is… I’m sorry things happened. And I’m going to have to apologize to Sally, too, later, but… Right now… I do want you to stop. I really, really, want to see you quit. But I’m going to wait until _you_ decide you’re ready to. I’m here, but I’m not going to push you. But, just for the record? You are _not_ a freak. Okay? They’re all wrong, and you might be a dick sometimes, but you don’t deserve that. Ever.”

Sherlock was floundering again.

He frowned and glanced from John, down at his hands, and back again in a bewildered sort of way. “…What the _hell_ am I supposed to say to that?”

“Try ‘thank you.’ Or, if that’s too hard, just say you’ll think about it. Consider it, alright? I’m really opening up here, the least you could do is try.”

“I—I…”

“No, sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. That’s pushing you. I just… Whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m not—“

“Don’t worry about it. I can wait. I’ll just… keep picking you up off as many floors as it takes, until you’re ready, I guess.”

“John.”

“I won’t make you do anything you aren’t prepared to do, okay? I’m just trying to—“

“ _John._ _Shut up._ ”

John blinked. He hadn’t expected him to raise his voice.

“Stop talking, and _listen to me._ ” Sherlock shut his eyes and took a breath and a moment.

John tilted his head, waiting.

When he finally opened his eyes again he looked resigned but determined, and his voice was soft, low, and controlled.

“ _Help me._ ”

 

 


	20. Baby Steps

_The craving was back._

John could tell.

He just could.

Maybe he’d become attuned to the slight distinction between the ‘normal sulk’ and the genuine, more acute melancholy that seemed to haunt the consulting detective’s silences now and then.

At any other time he would have noted it but kept his distance, knowing that Sherlock would be against him meddling and likely annoyed at the invasion of his isolation.

But this time was different.

John had his permission.

Verbatim.

An unlocked door.

_‘Help me.’_

Whether it had been a plea or a command, John had yet to decide. But maybe that didn’t matter.

What did matter now was that Sherlock was languishing on the sofa in an uncomfortably loud silence, and he was thinking about _it._

“Sherlock.” John finished making the tea and set one steaming mug on the coffee table by Sherlock, and one by the armchair for himself.

Sherlock only groaned moodily in response, and didn’t move.

“Yes, you. Do you, I don’t know, want to talk?” He settled into the chair and waited for a response for a minute or so before he gave up and opened his laptop. He wasn’t completely unprepared this time around. “You… feel like doing it, don’t you?”

“Leave me alone.”

John sighed. “Look, Sherlock, you asked me to help you. You said that. Maybe you weren’t aware, but that does actually mean I’m going to do something. It’s not just a thing to say. Alright? And now this is me, helping.”

Sherlock groaned again and nestled further into the sofa cushions.

Baby steps…

The clicking of the computer keyboard sounded louder than normal in the quiet living room, and John glanced up over the screen at the detective’s back, mentally crossing his fingers.

Okay, there we go…

“Hey, earth to Sherlock Holmes. I’ve had an idea for you.”

“Oh, have you? We’re all doomed, then…” Sherlock rolled over onto his back grudgingly and glared up at the ceiling.

John resisted the urge to mutter something about ‘jackass…’ under his breath, only because of the gravity of the current situation.

Due insults later.

More appropriate after said jackass’s urge to hurt himself had passed.

“Yes, I have. It… might be a long shot, but it’s the best I could come up with so far, so don’t knock it until you try it. Deal?”

“…I’m listening.”

That was probably as close to a positive response as he was going to get.

Green light.

“Okay then.” John clicked around a bit more, aware that he was stalling. “So… you want to SI right now, yeah?”

“I what?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked over at him.

“Um, SI. That stands for ‘self-injury.’ It was on the website I was reading, so…”

“Hmph. Don’t call it that, it makes it sound too common. And… yes.”

“Right. Well. I found a list, of stuff to do instead of that. Distractions, I guess. It’s better than sitting around moping and thinking about it too much.”

Sherlock shot him an incredulous ‘are you kidding me?’ sort of look, and John glanced down and clicked around a bit more. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it…”

The detective rolled back over, with his back to the room, and tucked his dressing gown up over his legs with finality.

Well…

Was that it…?

Silence fell back over them, and John was almost reluctant to break the spell it cast by touching any of the noisy keys, so he just sat there. He watched as Sherlock’s left hand slipped up underneath his sleeve, probably scratching at the old scars.

He had just begun to wonder if he really had made a mistake, when Sherlock muttered half-heartedly, “…What’s number one?”

“What? Oh… er… Let me see—it’s… ‘Exercise.’” That earned him a scoff and an eye-roll.

“As if I don’t do enough of that already. This isn’t getting off to a very promising start.”

“Well, how about this one… ‘Being with other people.’”

“Next.”

“Fine. ‘Read a good book?’”

“There aren’t any.”

“’Stretch.’”

“Is that actually on there?” Sherlock half sat up and gave him a dubious look.

“Yeah, you’re right… that one’s pretty stupid…” John scrolled down some more, skimming through the list in an attempt to find any entries that didn’t sound quite as… silly.

He purposely skipped over item 143, ‘call up an old friend.’

That one obviously didn’t apply.

"One of these suggestions says to..." John scrolled a bit. "'Count everything.' What does that even mean?"

Sherlock sighed in exasperation and rolled over on the couch. "75, 952."

"Sorry, what? Where did you get that number? Does that even relate to anything at all?” Apparently that one was going unanswered. “Okay, fine. ‘Write yourself an “I love you because” letter.’”

Sherlock frowned up at the ceiling. “If that’s what I assume it is, then no.”

“How come?”

“Obviously it’s ridiculous, absurd, and infantile. I can’t.”

_Was there possibly more to that ‘I can’t’ than just unwillingness because of how silly it seemed…?_

“’Count to one hundred?’”

“Done.”

John shook his head ruefully. “How about this… Do we have any rubber bands?”

Sherlock merely shrugged, raising an eyebrow.

“Hold on a second.” He shifted the laptop to the side and got up, going to the kitchen to dig through the drawers until he found a few good sized bands. He held them out to Sherlock, who regarded them suspiciously. “Just take them already.”

“What am I supposed to—“

“Put them on your wrist, and whenever you want to… you know… just snap it against your arm. It’s supposed to… I don’t know. Do something.”

Sherlock looked up at him quietly.

“What?” John shifted his weight to his other foot uncomfortably.

“…Nothing. Just… It’s interesting.”

“What is?”

“How hard you’re trying to help.”

“Well, you are my best friend. That’s what we do. Friends.”


	21. An Excess of Scarlet

_John could feel the darkness starting to lift, feel his consciousness slowly seeping back up through the depths of... something._

He could also feel the floor against his cheek, and something cold and damp...

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking in the sudden fluorescent glare.

Red.

Everywhere.

An excess of scarlet.

The clean linoleum was bathed in a flood of cold, vivid blood. It had spread out across the floor and touched him with crimson fingers that soaked into his pant legs and jumper and clung to his eyelashes.

His breath caught in his throat, and his voice stuck.

_No..._

He raised his eyes, and found them locked on a pair of lifeless, grey-blue ones that stared back at him from across the floor without seeing him.

_No, no, no..._

John tried to push himself up, at once wanting to puke and sob and kill someone, but only succeeding in slipping a bit on the slick of blood.

How could there be so much...?

_No, no, no, **no—**_

The rest of the kitchen seemed a distant, blurred expanse, and he could only focus on two things: the excess of red, and, in the centre of it all, Sherlock.

Silent, still, empty Sherlock.

Pale Sherlock.

Cold Sherlock.

Dead...?

Couldn't be happening.

Not possible.

Couldn't.

Not.

But.

_No._

John got up to his knees and moved toward him, trying vainly to control the trembling of his hands and the spinning of his head.

He didn’t even question the fact that he’d woken up on the kitchen floor. It didn’t matter.

But he was aware of the cuts.

He knew there were long, deep slices along Sherlock’s arms, but for some reason he couldn’t see them.

He knew without even looking that there was a large kitchen knife somewhere on the floor, in all this blood, and that it would have Sherlock’s fingerprints all over it.

"Oh _dear god_...” He choked. “ _Please no..._ "

He couldn’t look away from Sherlock’s eyes.

They were open but the fire was out, leaving them vacant, with a fixed, glassy stare that made John’s skin prickle.

Not possible.

_‘Help me.’_

He couldn’t.

_John could not help him._

_He never could._

_He had failed him._

_And now this…_

He reached out and lifted Sherlock’s arm by the wrist from where it lay in the scarlet pool, ignoring the cold drips that trickled down his fingers, and searched desperately for a pulse.

Any tiny beat would do.

Anything would be enough.

Just not _nothing._

_Not gone._

“Sherlock, _please… Don’t do this to me…_ ” His eyes stung, but everything felt numb. He couldn’t hear anything.

The silence was so real that it pressed in on all sides like a physical being.

John shut his eyes tightly.

He couldn’t handle seeing his best friend slumped on the floor like so many of the murder cases they had worked on before, even giggling as they did it.

But this was no murder.

And John wasn’t laughing.

He couldn’t accept what he was looking at.

It wasn’t real.

But…

When he opened his eyes again Sherlock still hadn’t moved.

There, with his fixed eyes and unnaturally pale skin, shadowy cheekbones, slightly parted lips, and the dark, disheveled curls that tumbled down over his brow…

John brushed them back with shaking fingers, unable to stop the cascade of incoherent mumbling and pleading that had started under his breath.

A noisy, intermittent snapping sound had begun coming from… somewhere.

Perhaps everywhere.

_Snap._

But John couldn’t focus on it.

_Snap._

 

 

+++++++++

_Snap._

John’s eyes flew open.

His chest felt tight, and his breath was short.

And…

“What are you looking at?” Sherlock glanced up apathetically from the couch, continuing to snap the rubber band against his wrist.

_Snap._

“You… You’re not…? So… It was just a…” John took a huge breath and leaned back in the armchair, suddenly very weak. “ _Oh Jesus…_ ”

“Hmm? Did something happen?” The detective tilted his head, half interested.

“I just… Dream. No, nightmare, actually.”

“About?”

“…Nothing.” John steadied himself and got to his feet, knees still jelly. “But… One thing. Can I check your pulse?”

Sherlock looked up at him dubiously, pausing with the rubber band still pulled back.

“Please.”

Still looking suspicious, Sherlock grudgingly offered up his wrist, which was now covered in little raised red lines from the rubber band.

John laid two fingers across it and kept them there for a minute, counting the steady beats.

Sherlock’s life signature.

_Still there._

_It hadn’t been real. Any of it._

All too soon the detective pulled away, clearly uncomfortable. But now, even the irritated glint in his eye was reassuring. Even the slight scowl was heartening.

Because it meant there was still hope.

John could still help.   


	22. Something Off

"Sherlock, you really can't just keep running off and letting your dinner get cold!" John scolded as he followed the detective down the sidewalk, gritting his teeth against the chill and almost skipping steps to keep up.

"I'm not 'running off,' I'm following up on a lead. It seems our bloodless victim had a friend, who may or may not have known something about her whereabouts and situation. Ah..." He stopped in front of a red door, and looked up at the apartment it belonged to. "Here we are."

“What are we going to do if they aren’t in?”

“She is.” Sherlock straightened his collar and knocked on the door.

“And you know this how…?”

“All the upstairs lights are on. She’s been looking for a cheaper flat—quite earnestly, too—obviously she wouldn’t go out and waste electricity like that.” Sherlock glanced back at him, and rolled his eyes at the anticipated question on John’s lips. “Her post-box is full of follow-ups from realtors.”

“Ah. Right. Well… if she’s in, shouldn’t she have come to the door by now?”

The hint of a frown passed over Sherlock’s features, and he knocked again, and then listened intently. “That’s odd…” He quickly looked around and spotted a newspaper on the side of the step, sitting on his heels to peel back the plastic on it. “December 11th… Two days ago.” His eyes narrowed. “Something’s off.”

“I’ll call Lestrade, then—“

“No, don’t.” Sherlock straightened up and snatched John’s mobile from his hands, wheeling about and heading down the alley beside the building.

“Hey— _that’s mine!_ Get back here with my phone, you _git!_ ”

“Calm down, I just needed a light!”

“You have your _OWN MOBILE TOO, remember?!_ ” John growled in frustration as the detective disappeared around the corner.

_Selfish arse…_

He sighed and stumped down the steps, deciding prudently not to follow Sherlock’s example of vaulting over the railing.

Slow and steady wins the race, after all.

“Sherlock? Where are you?” He squinted in the gloomy alleyway, searching for the glow of a mobile or the sound of a footstep. “This isn’t funny—it’s dark and I can’t see shit. Where the hell did you go?”

He could hear the sound of cabs and cars back in the street, but no detective.

_Damn it._

_Damn it all._

A few steps more brought him all the way around behind the apartment building, and as his eyes slowly began to adjust he could make out a slightly lighter area in front of him.

_An open door…?_

“Jesus, Sherlock…” He groaned under his breath.

Breaking into anyone’s flat had certainly not been on John’s agenda for the day. Or the day after, or the one after that.

But it didn’t feel quite right to just stand outside and leave Sherlock to go prancing about inside doing who knew what.

“ _You just better not get me arrested…_ ”

He decided not to shut the door behind him on the way in, so as to leave a clear escape path, _just in case._

It was warmer inside, at the very least.

He climbed a set of stairs and found himself in a well-lit living room, which looked normal enough, if a little hodgepodge.

But still no Sherlock.

And nobody else, either, for that matter. Sherlock had been so sure the occupant had been home, but could he have been mistaken…?

John was just about to call for him again when Sherlock appeared in the doorway across the room, stopping in his tracks when he saw him.

He took a moment, apparently trying not to look _too_ enthusiastic. “She’s dead.”

“Oh Jesus…”

“ _Murdered._ ”      

 

 


	23. No Time To Mourn

“Wait—so you’re saying there’s a dead woman in there—“ John gestured to the door Sherlock had come from.  “And we just _broke in?_ ”

“Well, yes. Isn’t it fabulous? Oh. Right… I’ll call Lestrade, eventually, once I’ve had a chance to look around before the whole crime scene gets completely trod on by that herd of wildebeests they affectionately call a forensics team.”

“Did you touch anything? They might find your fingerprints and think—“ John paused when he saw the funny look Sherlock was giving him.

“They know who I am. And I’m already on this case; my reputation will shield me from suspicion. Besides,” He smiled keenly. “She’s been dead for a full two days.”

“So…” John cleared his throat, trying to shift his attention back to the case. “One girl is found dead in an abandoned flat. Then, three days later, her friend’s dead too. Same killer?”

“That’s the thing… it’s totally different. The last victim was completely bloodless, but this one… And yet, it’s most definitely the same killer. _Moriarty._ ”

“But _why?_ _Why_ is he killing them like this?”

Sherlock regarded him for a moment of theatrical pause. “…Again, sending a message. He knew I’d connect the two… it’s his alternative to an email. A lot more eye-catching, really.”

“Sherlock, _she’s dead!_ ”

“Yes, I know. I literally just told you that, five minutes ago.”

“ _That’s a dead woman, not a bit of post!_ God, sometimes _you don’t even—_ ”

Sherlock frowned at him, tilting his head. “What do you want to me do, cry?”

_John’s mind suddenly flashed back to that night in the flat, where Sherlock had sobbed into his shoulder, high out of his mind._

“I don’t have time to mourn for anyone, John, least of all someone I didn’t even know. Let me do my job, and then you can, I don’t know, blog about it and overdose on chocolates.”

“Shut up. I’m not in the mood for this. Just show me the body, and let’s get out of here.”

 

++++++++

 

The moment John entered the room the stench hit him like a punch in the face from a professional bodybuilder. Wearing brass knuckles. And maybe also gripping a dead skunk.

The second thing he became aware of was the blood.

_Everywhere._

It filled the bathtub where the dead woman was resting, and had spilled out down the sides and onto the white tile floor.

_An excess of scarlet._

“It would appear that she slit her own wrists, likely with that knife there, and bled out. But that’s obviously not possible. She was right handed, but the cuts seem to be from a significantly left angle, so—John?”

John couldn’t breath.

_It wasn’t just the smell._

He doubled over, trying hard not to throw up.

“John, are you alright?” Sherlock was leaning over him, apparently trying to decide whether to touch him or not. “What is it? Can you talk to me?”

He wretched a bit, but managed a nod. “Fine…”

The next moment he was being led out of the room by the arm, following Sherlock back into the living room. The clearer air was a relief, but not as much as getting away from all that blood.

_John was a doctor… he didn’t mind blood… but… that was…_

_Different._

“Talk to me.” Sherlock prompted again. “Come on, the faster we get this over with the faster I can finish investigating, and then we can go home.”

“ _CAN YOU STOP?!_ ”

Sherlock stepped back, blinking, and stared at him with a vaguely puzzled expression.

Even John himself hadn’t expected that. “I… I’m… I mean… Sherlock, can you stop acting like this is just some case? Like it doesn’t _mean anything?_ This is the most dangerous criminal in London, telling you over and over again that _he knows all about your little problem!_ What if he… does _something?_ ”

The detective’s gaze fell to the floor, and then over to the window, and then back to his shoes. Looking him in the eyes was too uncomfortable, it seemed. “I’m… sure that with my help the Yard will be able to put a stop to this before there’s any more collateral damage.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about! I mean, yeah, that would be great—but that’s not what I meant!”

“It’s… not?”

“No, you great idiot! I’m talking about _you, Sherlock!_ This is all about you, isn’t it? What if he decides to stop playing around and… and…” John swallowed, trying not to think about the knife and the blood and the bathtub.

“Oh.” Sherlock nodded, though he still looked lost. “Oh…”

“Stop being so bloody distant about this! I’m worried about you, you git! This must be affecting you, on _some_ level, right?!”

“I can’t… I have to… I don’t have time—“

“You don’t have time to what? _Mourn for anyone?_ Least of all _yourself?_ ”

“Don’t be absurd, I’m not dead—“

“No, but you might be. If you carry on like this. And I don’t just mean… you know.” John drew in a deep breath, trying to figure out just how far he meant to go with this. “I just… don’t want to see you, on the floor, like that. Like that woman in there. I don’t want to see you end up dead. Okay?”

Sherlock was silent for several minutes, looking down at the carpet. “I… don’t think I will. I…  might have, almost, a few years ago, but… something happened, and I haven’t thought about it since.”

The hairs at the back of John’s neck prickled.

_Had he heard that right?_

“All that to say…” Sherlock straightened up stoically and turned back toward the door. “Stop worrying, and don’t nag me. I’ll figure this out.”

_‘Something happened…’?_

_What was that supposed to mean?_

 

 

 

 

 

 


	24. Like It Never Happened

John paced across the living room once more, to glance out the window and down at the street, which was still empty.

_Taking his sweet time, of course._

_John wouldn’t have expected anything else._

_But that didn’t mean it didn’t try his patience._

At long last he caught sight of the familiar black car pulling up at the curb.

_Finally._

He cast one last look around the flat, wondering for a split second if he should have cleaned up a bit, before quickly dismissing the thought. Mycroft wouldn’t care. And Sherlock would notice.

A knock came at the door, and he crossed the room to let the elder Holmes in, nodding awkwardly and only receiving a brusque glance and a raised brow.

“I’m sure you’re well aware that I don’t make… _house calls_ very often.” Mycroft stepped inside, brushing past him. “So I can only assume that whatever it is you’ve called me about is of the utmost importance.”

“Yeah, well, it is. Important.”

The Holmes took stock of the flat, in all its chaotic, homey, slightly dusty glory, before nodding. “I take it Sherlock is out. And likely will be for the next…” He checked the time. “…Seventy-five minutes, give or take a few.”

“Right. He’s out doing… case stuff. I guess. It’s just lucky he decided to leave for a while, to give me a chance to ask you a few things.”

Mycroft smiled demurely as he made himself comfortable in the armchair. “There is no such thing as luck, John.”

“Oh…?” John took a seat across from him, trying to decide how to best proceed, and whether it was really worth pushing the subject. “Well… anyway. What I called you here for is to… I wanted to ask you a bit about Sherlock. Back-story. Because, obviously, you were there, and all that.  I want to know what really started this.”

“You’re asking me to tell you all the details of the _horrendous struggles_ and _grievous internal hardships_ of my little brother, hmm?”

“I’m being serious here, Mycroft.” John tapped his fingertips against the arm of the chair, setting his jaw stubbornly.

“As am I.”

 

++++++++

 

The grey cloud cover had melted off, and the sun broken through, by the time Sherlock returned to the flat.

John was reading in the armchair when he came in, and glanced up, thankful for an excuse to stop trying to focus on the words, if only to have something to focus on.

“Hey, Sherlock.”

He grumbled something about ‘dead ends’ and shrugged off his coat.

John waited until the detective had paced the room a few times, and ruffled up his curls in aggravation, before he spoke again.

“So… I take it you didn’t find anything new?” After a few moments without an answer he set the book aside. “Look, I’ve got something I’ve been wondering about. Something you said.”

Sherlock paused by the window, but stayed silent.

“Should I take that as an ‘okay, John, go ahead’? Hmm? Alright, fine…” John scratched the back of his neck. “Back in that murdered girl’s flat, you said something about… thinking about… er… doing something.”

_Still, no response._

“I can’t just ignore that. That isn’t what friends do, you know? I want to help you. …Sherlock?”

“ _Can we just act like I never said that?_ ” Sherlock snapped, turning to glare at him. “There was a moment of weakness, and that slipped out, and it was years ago, and I never meant to tell anyone at all, and now you won’t _leave me alone!_ ”

“But… Sherlock… that’s serious… really serious. Having thoughts like that. I don’t want to be in the dark about this. Especially now. What if you start feeling—“

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? _Feeling._ I’m so _sick of it._ It’s distracting, and useless, and despicably human, and—“

“Painful.”

Sherlock paused, looking at him in quiet surprise.  John almost fancied he could watch his pupils contract in the sunlight filtering in through the window.

“I may not be a genius, but I’m not an idiot, either, Sherlock. Whether you meant to tell me or not, you did. You said something stopped you, but there’s still the rest of this we’re working through now. I know you try to pretend like you don’t have feelings, but honestly… that charade kind of fell through the first time I found out you’d been hurting yourself. You weren’t just bored. I know that.”

“Stop. _Stop it._ I don’t have time for this; I have a case to solve. I don’t have time for friends, or feelings. I have work. I don’t have time to devote my attention to anything other than the _most important_ thing right now, and that is stopping Moriarty.”

“You really don’t want my help, do you? Alright. Alright, _fine._ I get it. Okay. I’ll just… go ‘care about someone else,’ then. That’s what you said you wanted, isn’t it?”

Sherlock stared at his back as John stood up and turned away. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to speak, but no words came out. Then he set his jaw and looked down at his hands, which were clenched so tightly the knuckles whitened.

_Fuck._


	25. Not Working

It wasn’t working.

_Why wasn’t it working?_

Sherlock languished on the sofa, letting his right arm loll off the side and onto the floor.

John hated him.

Everyone hated him.

They must.

_Otherwise why was John so damn angry with him?_

_It didn’t make sense._

He rolled over and glared up at the ceiling without seeing it. _What he wouldn’t do for a hit… or a blade… right about now…_

But he didn’t have time for that. He didn’t have time now to let himself be distracted by _anything,_ and emotions ate up a lot of disk space.  Much too much. They made it hard to think straight, too. Perhaps he could allow himself to address them later, privately, but…  Right now, Moriarty posed the biggest threat, and dealing with him would require his full attention.

But why had that made John cross?  

What part of that didn’t make sense?

Sherlock had explained it all _point blank_.

And yet for some reason John had gotten upset, and left in a huff, and maybe now he didn’t care anymore. Maybe he’d given up.

With a _‘humph’_ he turned his back to the room again and nestled into the cushions.

_Why the hell did people have to be so baffling?_

He could hear the door slam downstairs: John was home.

Sherlock didn’t bother to move from his position on the sofa, not even to look up as John came upstairs. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with any more pointless arguments.

_A soft, flowery fragrance had entered the room along with him._

_He’d spent the night at a girlfriend’s._

Why John had ever even wanted to talk about Sherlock’s ‘feelings’ was perplexing in itself.

_He cared._

Sherlock pushed that little voice away to a back corner of his mind, silencing it with an inward scowl. He’d been stupid to ever take that voice seriously.

For a while he’d thought he was beginning to understand, but now it was clearer than ever that he really didn’t.

Perhaps John, too, had thought he cared. Perhaps John had somehow been able to convince himself that his admiration for Sherlock’s intelligence was somehow more than that—that his appreciation of the skill was actually an appreciation of the person.

But the other day’s exchange had certainly dashed any illusions John was holding.

That must be why he hated him now.

Sherlock had opened up too much… he’d driven John away… he’d bled disgusting weakness out all over everything and now John wanted nothing more to do with him.   

So much so that even demonstrations of Sherlock’s expertise didn’t seem to be doing any good.

It had been a last ditch effort—several efforts, actually—to prove to John that he was still just as clever as before, that there was still something there to like about him, but the only thing that had gotten him was an irritated rebuke about ‘being a bloody show-off.’

_Why wasn’t it working?_

_It had worked before, hadn’t it?_

_That’s what had made John like him in the first place, right?_

If only the extent of his stupid bloody weakness hadn’t been exposed. If only John hadn’t found out just how flawed and messy he really was. If only he hadn’t lost control so many times.

He should have been more careful.

He should have been more reserved.

He should never have let John in.

That had been dangerous and Sherlock knew it. He didn’t want to lose John, too, and now he probably would, all because he couldn’t shut him out. He’d tried, certainly, but somehow the ex-army doctor had kept finding his way back in, saying things that made Sherlock spill everything, tell him things he’d never intended anyone to know.

He hadn’t meant to.

But now that John had seen the heart of it…

He would doubtless be revolted. Pushed away, tired of it all, sick of trying to negotiate the maze that was oddball Sherlock Holmes and his massive intellect. He would go and ‘find someone else to care about,’ someone who had much more to offer than just genius.

Sherlock took a deep breath of that faint perfume and listened to John’s heavy footsteps across the living room and up the stairs. He opened his eyes and stared at the sofa cushions, barely an inch from his face. They smelled musty and familiar and comforting, in an odd way. The same sort of odd way that the warm iron scent of blood, or the sting of an antiseptic had become comforting.

Maybe that made him strange.

Maybe that only added to what made him a…

He undid his cuff quietly and pushed the sleeve up, letting his fingertips run over the newly healed scars, and slowly over the letters he’d so carefully cut.

_A freak._

The word didn’t have to be set in stone, or in skin, to be true. It just was.

And this only proved it.

Was there any way he could possibly repair John’s vision of him? Any way he could atone for whatever it was he’d said wrong?

Short of rebuilding all his walls, pretending like none of this had ever happened, keeping his back straight and presenting a front that would be aloof and at least somewhat likeable, he didn’t seem to have much choice.

But that’s what he had been trying to do.

And John didn’t seem to be impressed.

 

 


	26. Sulking

_Addictions didn't just stop._

_It wasn't just a switch you could turn on and off._

But for some reason Sherlock seemed determined to pretend that it was—just like he tried to control everything else in his life, _the damn control-freak._

John fumbled with his key and stumped up the front stairs into the flat.

He'd tried everything he could possibly think of to help Sherlock, said every kind thing he could think to say, and it _still_ hadn't made any fucking difference, because Sherlock hadn't _let_ it.

And now the twat had the audacity to lie around on the sofa, sulking.

 _Sulking_ —as if he had any right to consider himself the victim.

He didn't even bloody _want_ to get better. He didn't care what the hell John did for him, because he didn't care enough about anything at all to even try.

And you know—It was probably out of spite, too.

_A great big 'fuck you,' spat right back in John's face._

That's what he got for trying.

Because, obviously, he didn't matter enough to be anything important to that cold, distant, indifferent bastard of a detective.

What did it matter that John had sacrificed his own sleep, and social and work appointments, just to be with him when he'd needed it? _What did it matter_ that he'd nearly got himself sued trying to protect him?

Apparently it didn't, because Sherlock clearly didn't give two shits what he felt.

Maybe he’d been right before—maybe he didn’t have a heart.

Or at least, not a considerate one.

Sherlock obviously didn’t like him enough to let him in. He should have seen that earlier… He’d been given the cold shoulder and he hadn’t even realized it.

_Well he fucking realized it now._

He’d tried so hard, and it didn’t even mean anything. Sherlock didn’t _want_ him to care. He probably thought it was all somehow annoying, and irritating, and…

_The shallow git._

_How self-centred do you have to be to disregard somebody’s concern like that…?_

He’d just taken all of John’s caring and sliced it up and threw it right back at his feet. As if it didn’t matter what John thought or felt. Like it was somehow funny.

Maybe that’s what it was to Sherlock—some kind of big, twisted joke.

That would be just like him.

_Wouldn’t it._

John muttered something under his breath about ‘selfish arse,’ and crossed the living room to the stairs without saying a word to the detective curled on the sofa in the half-darkness. He paused for a moment, and then continued on up to his bathroom, where he went to turn on the shower and get cleaned up.

He’d have to say something, eventually.

They’d have to speak sooner or later.

He’d almost forgotten the things Mycroft had shared with him, days ago, down in the living room. He’d been planning on possibly using them to help Sherlock work through all this, but now it didn’t really seem relevant anymore.

Then again…

_‘Bullied since his first day of primary school, and up to the very last year at uni.’_

John paused under the stream of hot water, watching the steam condense on the shower wall and come sliding back down in big, heavy drips. 

Sure, it was a sad story, and all, but…

That didn’t change the fact that, now-days, adult Sherlock was being a massive pain in the arse.

A pain in the arse who clearly just wanted John to butt out.

 

 

 

 


	27. Stay

John stifled a yawn as he came down the stairs the next morning, doing his best to clear the sleepy fuzz out of his head.

_Early mornings were better when you could actually get to sleep on time the night before._

He stretched, blearily finding his way to the kitchen and starting a pot of coffee. It was only when he'd got a mug down from the cabinet that he became aware that he wasn't the only one awake.

He put the mug down and stepped out of the kitchen, slowly, cautiously approaching the armchair where Sherlock was sitting.

"...Sherlock? What are you doing?" His tone was tense and demanded an answer, but Sherlock took his time, turning the knife this way and that in his hands, examining every inch of it.

It was sharp.

John could see that much.

Sharp, and unspeakably evil.

It took all his newly woken control to keep his voice even. "I asked you a question. What are you doing?"

"I'm looking over evidence." Sherlock let the blade dangle from his fingertips, turning it to catch the light.

"Evidence...?"

"That's what I said. This is the knife Moriarty used to kill that girl. Of course there aren't any prints on it, they've already checked for them, but there must be something about it... There's always something..."

John finally gave in to impulse and snatched the knife from him, carrying it warily back to the kitchen with him.

" _Hey!_ " Sherlock started up and glared at him. "Hands off! I was looking at that!"

"You said there's always something about it! Did you ever stop to think that maybe—just _maybe_ —Moriarty is sending you a message, by leaving you this knife? Telling you to do something?"

"Of course I thought of that. I didn't say it because it's really a bit obvious,

John."

"Don't fuck with me this early in the morning! I haven't had my coffee yet and

I..." He looked down at the knife in his hand, suddenly very opposed to holding it anymore. "Never mind."

"Is there a reason you didn't sleep well last night? Trouble with the latest girlfriend? The... librarian, right? She's cheating on you, by the way."

"Shut up."

“I couldn’t help but notice that she’s—“

“Shut your face, and quit showing off. I’m not in the mood for this.”

“—Not the right fit for you.”

John stared at him for a moment, and then turned back to the kitchen to pour his coffee with rigidly held restraint and shut the knife up in a cabinet, if only so he didn’t have to look at it for now.

_Just a bad morning turned worse._

“John…”

“What?” He snapped and turned around, instantly regretting his tone.

Sherlock sighed, settling into his perch on the arm of the chair and tucking his feet up on the seat. “I… realize you’re not very interested in dealing with me now, but… at this point in the case your assistance would be… good. So, if only for the sake of those girls—I know you felt sorry for them, I saw your eyes—would you stay?”

John stood there, the mug feeling very heavy in his hand. He swallowed. “…Stay? What do you mean? Where would I be going?”

“You said… You’d find someone else.” Sherlock seemed a little jolted that things weren’t going the way he’d expected them to.

“Sherlock…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t actually mean that. Sometimes when people are angry they say things they don’t mean.”

“Oh.” The detective suddenly seemed very small in the midst of the big room, lost in a chaotic sea of books and papers and odds and ends, curled up in his armchair-ship and pretending he wasn’t confused. “I knew that.”

“Of course. Of course I’m going to stay. I said I would.” John’s anger at him slowly subsided for the moment, taking pause as he saw how disoriented Sherlock was at finding out that he wasn’t actually going to leave him. Almost as if he was fighting to not seem vulnerable, but it wasn’t working out so well.

He’d really believed him.

He’d accepted it as inevitable and moped about on the couch, waiting.

_Could that mean he actually did care…?_

 

 


	28. Unheard Of

_“You’re asking me to tell you all the details of the_ horrendous struggles _and_ grievous internal hardships _of my little brother, hmm?”_

_“I’m being serious here, Mycroft.” John tapped his fingertips against the arm of the chair, setting his jaw stubbornly._

_“As am I.”_

The living room was too distracting. He kept picturing Sherlock over by the couch, high out of his mind, or slumped against the sofa, half blacked out from blood loss.

John knew he shouldn’t have decided to call Mycroft here.

But he was tired of the elder Holmes always summoning people everywhere, and damn it, now it was his turn.

“Okay. So… er… start at the beginning? What was he like as a little kid?”

Mycroft smiled demurely. “Mischievous, quiet, and bookish, alternately.”

“Is that all?” John was starting to hope dearly that this wasn’t going to be a lost effort.

“Hmm. Well… without an accurate baseline to compare himself to, even the most intelligent man on earth may believe himself stupid. Of course, I never doubted myself, as I had my little brother as a baseline, but Sherlock…” Mycroft crossed his legs again leisurely. “Up until we met other children, we both believed he was _slow._ ”

John was aware that his mouth was hanging open, and he quickly closed it. “ _…What?_ Sherlock, stupid? That’s… You’re kidding me. He’s a genius. He’s never doubted himself in his life. Have you listened to him, ever? That’s completely… Are you serious?”

“Of course, once we’d encountered _regular_ children he realized that wasn’t quite true.”

“Of course…”

“And yet, as you should know by now, being above average to any degree can be more of a curse than a blessing, when it comes to dealing with people.”

John licked his lips and tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Aside from being completely and utterly bored to death with their tiny, unused minds and wide, overused mouths… Ordinary people have an unrelenting tendency to single out those who are different. And depending on how well said difference is controlled, they may respond with open cruelty. Sherlock never did learn to control himself.”

“Wait. So you’re saying—“

“Pardon, let me make this simpler for you: he was bullied since his first day of primary school, and up to the very last year at uni.”

“Oh.” John looked down at his hands. “Well… did he ever have any friends there?”

Mycroft looked at him like he was an alien who had suddenly crash-landed in the armchair through a gaping hole in the ceiling. “Are we talking about the same person?”

“Okay… That’s a no, then… How about home life? What did he like to do?”

“As a youth, he had a fondness for books on Chemistry. He also conducted experiments, as he does today. But at a certain point in his later teens it wasn’t enough. That’s when he fell into drugs.”

“Why?”

“I assume boredom played a large role. He had the house to himself for days at a time, so he was free to do as he pleased, however reckless and irresponsible that was.”

John frowned.

He had a feeling that cutting had been the first addiction.

Drugs came after.

But the real question was, what was Sherlock trying so desperately to remedy with all this?

It was starting to sound like a lot of things.

“What did he do after he left home?”

“Work. He made a name for himself with the Yard, and used his deduction skills in any way he possibly could. And here we find him today, in the unusual position of having a flat mate, and being even the slightest bit open about himself.”

“Is that really that unusual…?”

“For him, yes. Almost unheard of.”

Just a flat mate.

Just caring.

A friend.

_Unheard of._

What a lonely life he must have led before this… Was it really any wonder that he’d let the work become his life, to try to fill in that emptiness with the thrill of The Game?

To do what he was good at, and what got him noticed—at least for a little while.

A life with no one there to care if he didn't eat for days, no one to appreciate his extraordinary intelligence, no one to comfort him with a hug if he needed one and would never admit it. With the only other face being the one in the mirror, and the only voice he consistently heard his own. Eventually the only voice he trusted.

And we are our own worst critics.

A life where the hunger to prove and outmaneuver surmounted the hunger of the physical kind.

A busy life.

But an empty one just the same.

 

 


	29. Human

It was still dark out when John was roused from a light sleep by the repetitive call from the other bedroom.

“John? John. _John_ —“

He groaned and rolled over, covering his head with a pillow, but it was no use. Finally he pushed the blankets off and sat up, switching on the lamp and trudging downstairs.

“Jesus, Sherlock, it’s three o’clock in the morning… I have work tomorrow…”

“Oh please, it’s not like you weren’t getting up soon anyway.”

John stifled a yawn into his sleeve. True, he was a little thirsty, but still…

Sherlock was lying on top of the blankets, still fully clothed, and although the lights were off he didn’t appear to have slept recently.

“So. What’s this about?” John leaned back against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest.

He didn’t get an answer immediately, and almost nodded off standing up.

“John.”

“Hmm?”

“I broke the rubber band.”

He blinked, his sleep-hazed brain taking a few moments to process what Sherlock had said. “Huh? Oh… Uh… I don’t…”

“I checked the drawers, but I couldn’t find any more.”

John found his way over to the chair by the wall and settled himself in it as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness. “Yeah, well… I don’t think we have any more. Do you…?”

Sherlock groaned quietly and glared up at the ceiling.

“Whatever happened to ‘I don’t have time for feelings’?”

“Shut up.” The detective turned his head to look at him, and John could see the glint of his eyes in the shadows. “I don’t. I just…”

“I know. Sometimes you can’t control them. Not even you. That’s just part of being human.”

“Am I, though? Human? Sometimes I think…”

“Sherlock…” He rubbed his temple and shut his eyes. Yes. Of course. Of course you are. You’re the most human… human being I’ve ever known.”

“Even with all this? I know I’m not exactly the most empathetic person alive…”

“No. _Because of_ all this. That’s what makes you so human. You try to get away from it, to act like it doesn’t affect you, but you’re really just trying to do the same thing the rest of us are. To… try not to hurt, I guess.”

Sherlock was quiet for several minutes. “…As long as you’re up, you might as well make some tea.”

“Yeah... Sure. I’ll be back in a second.” John heaved himself up and padded down the hall to the kitchen.

He didn’t really mind Sherlock ignoring his point, because he knew it wasn’t out of spite. He probably just wasn’t comfortable discussing something so heavy so openly.

John really should have been used to that by now.

And besides, if he wasn't mistaken that request for tea might have also been an invitation to stick around for a bit. And that, with the search for a replacement rubber band, constituted a pretty good plea for help.

When he returned to Sherlock's room he was sitting up in the dark, with his knees drawn up and his arms crossed over his chest.

John set one of the mugs on the side table and took a seat in the chair again. "Are you alright?"

"Fine."

"Don't just say that, if you aren't. I know you might not really want my help, but that doesn't mean I've stopped caring."

"I... I mean... Right now, I'm... fine, but I'm not okay. That doesn't make sense." He laughed, a little harshly, and shifted on the blankets.

John looked down at his own mug in his hands, and shook his head. "No, I think I get it. Maybe. But with you I'm never sure."

"Neither am I."

He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him even though he couldn't quite see them. "You should drink your tea. It might help you get some sleep."

Sherlock scoffed loudly. "I don't have time for sleep right now."

"Yeah, well, sleep deprivation and being 'not okay' is really not a great combination. Just try. I promise if anything happens, you can punch me for it."

“No, you don’t understand. I _can’t._ ”

“’I can’t’ as in, you’re too stubborn, or you’ve got insomnia?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe a little of both, if you must know.”

“Drink your tea before it gets any colder, and then get back to me on that.”

The detective reached over and took the mug, warming his hands against it before raising it to his lips. John waited until he’d drunk more than half of it before he spoke up again.

“Are you going to be fine for the rest of tonight? Because I really do have to get up for work in the morning.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Fine.”

“Will you tell me if you’re going to be not fine?”

“…Alright. But I am. Fine.”

 

++++++++++++

 

John glanced up from his coffee as Sherlock emerged from his room the next morning. He sighed. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”

“ _Fabulous deduction._ I’m fine.” He waved a hand dismissively, looking more irritable than fine.  

“You don’t have to be a dick this early in the morning, you know. And I could probably get you something to help you sleep, if you need it.”

“I don’t need anything! Nothing except to _focus!_ I can’t focus, John! Why is that so hard?!” He raked his fingers through his curls, mussing them up further.

“Sherlock.” John set his coffee down on the counter and looked at him. “First of all, breathe. Second, you’re stressing. My advice as a doctor would be to get some sleep, and stop trying to handle everything on your own. You might not want to hear it again, but I’m still here. Okay?”

“I’ve told you before, I _can’t!_ ” He pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes, and when he looked up again he spoke determinedly. “I need a smoke.”

“Sherlock. _No._ We’ve talked about this before.”

“Oh, come _on!_ What would you rather I do, smoke, cut, or shoot up? Because I need _something._ ”

“What you need is some fucking sleep. You’re half way to being a zombie. But… fine. If it’s that, or… the other stuff, then a smoke sounds like the least of three evils. Just this once, so you don’t lose your mind before I get home. And do it outside, please. Not in the flat again.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

 

 


	30. Sleep

“Fucking hell, Sherlock—when did one smoke turn into a whole carton?” John tipped the empty box upside-down and tossed it onto the table again. He followed the detective’s restless movements with his eyes as he paced up and down the living room, muttering to himself. “Sherlock?”

“I’m _busy._ ”

“Yeah, I can see you have been. What’s all this?” He gestured to the photos and notes pinned to the wall, all different shots of the two murder victims Sherlock had so fiercely insisted were Moriarty’s doing.

“This is work, obviously! I need to figure this out—I need to know _why!_ It’s staring me in the face, I know it is—but I can’t see it!”

“You need to relax. We’ll figure this out. Okay?”

Sherlock’s dishevelled curls and wide, shadowed eyes, combined with his incessant pacing and muttering, only completed the image of a madman.

“Sherlock, listen to me. When was the last time you slept? Can you tell me that?”

He threw up his hands, glaring at the wall. “I don’t know—I guess… kitchen floor.”

“That was _days_ ago. I’m surprised you’re still coherent. Jesus… I know you want to solve this, but it’s obviously going to take a while. You know you can’t just stay awake until then.”

“Why can’t I? I can’t work when I’m asleep! Anything could happen! Wasted time. What if I cut myself in my sleep?!” He ran a hand over his face roughly and turned on his heel to begin pacing again. “I’ll lose control!”

“You’re delirious. Fuck… I guess it’s safe to assume you haven’t eaten, then, either. At least I had you drink that tea last night…”

Sherlock wasn’t listening. He was too busy staring intently at the photos, one after the other, mentally cataloguing every detail he could see. He stepped back, and wavered on his feet slightly before straightening his back and catching himself.

John sighed heavily. He’d have to try a different tactic. “Okay. Alright. So, you’ve been working on this for days, yeah?”

Sherlock turned to glance at him with an unspoken ‘ _and?_ ’

“Any leads?”

“I—I…“ He swallowed. “It was Moriarty.”

“Yeah, that’s what we said the first time, remember? Have you figured out anything new like this, or are you just making yourself ill?”

“I’m fine…”

“But not okay?”

“Leave me alone, John! I need to get this out of the way! I need to focus!”

“At least change your clothes, then.”

“There isn’t time!” He was gesturing fervently with every word he spoke, as if to put on an even better demonstration of an energetic lunatic.

“You’re mad…”

“ _I’M WORKING!_ ”

John drew in a deep breath and let it out, moving over to the armchair and lowering himself into it. “Have you ever thought that maybe this is exactly what he wants? Moriarty. What if this is all to drive you crazy, to make you stress yourself out to the point of delirium? Make you less of a threat? Because if that’s true then it’s certainly working.”

“What are you trying to say?!”

“Calm down. Let yourself rest. The case will still be here when you wake up, and nothing bad is going to happen in the meantime. Alright?”

Sherlock hesitated, but his gaze hadn’t lost any of that intense fire. “I told you. I can’t. I _can’t_ —I’ve tried. I can’t sleep.”

“Why not? Is there any particular reason, other than the case?”

“I don’t know! All I know is I can’t stop thinking—but I can’t focus on the important thing! I can’t focus on the case! I keep feeling, and it’s distracting, and I can’t turn it off!”

“You can’t just turn your emotions off, Sherlock. That isn’t the way they work.”

“But that’s what I need to do! They’re in the way!”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re not a machine. Quit acting like one. I really need you to be human right now.”

 

++++++++++

 

 

Despite John’s best efforts that evening and the next day, the cups of tea on the table eventually went cold and the plate of toast on offer wasn’t even touched. It was abundantly clear that Sherlock hadn’t had a moment of sleep that night, either, and it really wasn’t helping things.

By the time John returned from work the next day the flat looked as if a hurricane had passed through it, and the detective’s mood was just as stormy and erratic.

He paced back and forth across the living room floor, hardly noticing that he was scratching distractedly at his arms in the process.

“Sherlock.” John set his bag down on the table and waited for the detective to register the sound of his voice. “Sherlock, you need to sleep.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“ _I can’t._ ”

“Then at least sit down before you fall down, okay? I’m going to make you a cup of tea, and I really do want you to drink it this time.” He watched him until Sherlock had grudgingly taken a seat on the sofa, and then went to the kitchen to start the tea.

Sherlock looked down at his hands with mild curiosity. “I’m shaking.”

“That’s because of the exhaustion and hunger. Here, drink this.” John frowned as he pushed the cup toward him.

A flash of suspicion showed in the detective’s eyes. “You put something in it, didn’t you?”

“What? There’s nothing in here but tea, I promise. Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m not okay! I can’t figure this out!”

John took the opportunity to push the cup into his hand and manually wrap Sherlock’s fingers around it. “Drink. It’s going to be alright. And lower your voice, you’ll upset Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock looked down at it, and then up at him, and for a moment it looked like he might protest further, but then his shoulders slumped a little and he slowly sipped the tea.

“Good. Finish that, and then, if you can manage it, I’d really like you to eat something.”

“But John, I’m on a case…”

“Doctor’s orders. I know what I’m talking about. Trust me.” John took a seat on the other end of the sofa and waited for him to finish the tea.

After a while Sherlock seemed to give up on it and set the cup on the coffee table, leaning back and curling up on the sofa. His long legs were almost on John’s lap, though he did his best to stay on his side of the sofa.

“Is that any better?” John leaned over and picked up the mostly empty cup, but he didn’t get any reply. “Sherlock?”

He glanced over at the detective’s face, and let out a soft sigh of relief.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed.

His features were finally relaxed.

His chest rose and fell slowly as he breathed.

Asleep.

_Finally._

“You needed it, you big idiot…” John set the cup back down again and settled back. He wasn’t about to risk waking him by getting up, and besides, all those nights he’d said he’d tried to sleep but couldn’t, he’d been alone.

And here with John next to him he was out like a light.

It was probably presumptuous of him to think that he could have that much of an effect on Sherlock, but it certainly made him feel more needed, and that was always nice.

At some point Sherlock shifted and stretched out a bit, but John was determined not to mind.

Hopefully the detective would at least be a little easier to deal with once he was rested.

Maybe he’d even agree to eat something once he was a bit more rational.

John could only hope.

 

 

 


	31. Again

John blinked awake slowly, lifting his chin off his chest and trying to make sense of his situation and figure out why his left leg was numb.

_Oh…_

He must have nodded off while Sherlock slept, and the weight of the detective's feet had cut off his circulation.

But something had woken John.

Something was strange.

He realized it almost at once; Sherlock was trembling slightly. His eyes were still closed, and he seemed to still be in a deep sleep, but his fists were clenched and his teeth gritted. It was the most openly distraught John had seen him in a while.

A soft sound escaped Sherlock's lips, almost but not quite sounding like a word.

Maybe it was just a whine.

Whatever he was dreaming clearly wasn't pleasant, to say the least.

"Sherlock." He spoke quietly at first, and then dared to raise his voice a little. "Sherlock, wake up."

The only response was another moan and a turn of the head. Sherlock's brow was furrowed in an almost pained expression, and John bit his lip. He knew from experience that being stuck in a nightmare could be terrible, and with Sherlock being who he was, one could only guess as to what went on in his dreams.

John leaned over, with the intention of shaking him by the shoulder until he stirred—but Sherlock suddenly reached out and grabbed him by the wrist, and his eyes shot open.

He stared up at him for several seconds, still dazed from sleep, but quickly regaining his clarity. His gaze slid from John's startled face to his wrist, which he was still holding tightly.

He cleared his throat and released him quickly. "I... My reflexes are… remarkable.”

“Are you sure that’s what it was? It looked like you were responding to something in your nightmare.”

His expression didn’t change, but somehow John got the distinct impression that he was startled. “I don’t have _nightmares._ Those are for children and weaklings. Of which I am neither.”

“I used to have them, when I came back from Afghanistan.” John rested his elbows on his knees and looked over at him. “My therapist said they were a result of stress and trauma. I’m just saying, it’s okay. Alright? I’m not judging you. I’ll try to understand.”

“…I doubt you could. You’re average.”

“Gee, thanks.” John intoned dryly, pursing his lips.

“No, I mean… you’re _normal_.  You’re…” He glanced about as he searched for words. “You’re… em… okay. And I’m… not.”

“What do you mean by that? You’re a bit different, yeah, but you’re still—“

“Don’t try to bullshit me, John. As a youth I once spent three days locked in the library reading books on psychology just trying to figure out what was wrong with me. I found that sociopath sounded the most accurate. So don’t think that you can just tell me I’m normal and move on with it, and expect me to believe you.”

John swallowed. “Sherlock? You’re not a sociopath, high-functioning or otherwise.”

“ _Don’t you think I know that?_ ” Sherlock was glaring at him with those intense eyes again. “But it’s a hell of a lot easier than saying… anything else.”

_So it was just a cover-up?_

_Another wall to hide behind?_

_A quick answer that still painted him as the insensitive bad-guy so nobody would think to look any farther than that?_

“What happened in your dream? Talking about it might help. I know it did for me, sometimes.” John could sense that Sherlock was backtracking, realizing how open he was being and possibly becoming uncomfortable and starting to shut down again—but he was getting somewhere now, and he desperately wanted to keep that line open for as long as the detective would let him. “Please.”

“It’s stupid. I don’t want to.”

“Sherlock, please. If you do I promise I won’t bother you about the experiment in the microwave for at least another two days. Okay?”

“I…” His brow furrowed in thought, and his right hand slipped under his sleeve, probably unconsciously. “It was just… Remember the other day, when I said that I was thinking about death a few years ago?”

John glanced up, a bit startled, but nodded quickly. “You said…”

“Something stopped me. It’s completely illogical, and I can’t explain it, but… I got a flatmate, and for some reason I… didn’t… think about that anymore.” His attempt to sound offhanded fell flat, but he still tried.

_A flatmate._

**_Oh…_ **

“Anyway—“ Sherlock spoke faster, as if trying to get through everything as quickly as possible and hopefully distract John again. “In the dream, it was all back the way it was—the… flatmate was gone, and I was all…” The last word seemed to be stuck in his throat, and he closed his mouth and frowned as if it would pain him to say it, struggling as it tried to get out, but he wouldn’t let it.

_Alone._

_All alone._

“You reached out and grabbed me.” John observed quietly, more to himself than to Sherlock.

“Yes, well, you don’t have to bring that up again. It was a reflex. A well-timed reflex, that’s all. Don’t try to read anything into it.”

_Too late._

John nodded slowly, almost relieved when Sherlock looked away. That gaze was getting hard to take, and it sometimes felt as if the detective could see more than he was letting on.

And yet somehow he still couldn’t seem to see how much John cared.

 

 

 

 


	32. Numb to the bone

_It was too much._

The distraction was too sharp, the need too strong.

_It came on suddenly._

It came with the realization that he'd let himself down—he'd dropped the act in front of John—and for what?

_He couldn't even say why, exactly._

The important thing was that he'd failed to remain stoic. He'd let Moriarty get to him. 

A slip in judgment; a stumble in focus.

He had to get back to the real point, somehow.

And this need was standing in his way.

So he'd waited until John had left for work Monday morning, and then ambled back to his bedroom and opened the sock drawer where, far in the back, he'd retrieved the little bottle of his solution.

It wasn't one he liked to go to very often, because it interfered with his thoughts, and it was harder to keep it hidden from John than cutting would be.

But it seemed like the only thing he had left.

He'd unscrewed the cap, and shaken out two of the little red and white solutions onto his palm.

_And… maybe one more wouldn’t hurt, now that he was going this far already._

They felt light and reassuring in his hand.

But they felt even more reassuring on the way down his throat, promising that fairly soon he wouldn't be feeling much of anything.

All that was left to do now was wait.

He probably had a good... thirty minutes and fifty-two seconds before the full effect kicked in, but until then he was left with nothing but will-power as defence.

That would leave him several hours to enjoy the benefits of being numb before it wore off again and John came home.

_John…_

Sherlock stopped and stared at the bottle for a few moments. He knew John wouldn’t like this if he knew. It was nowhere near as destructive as cutting, in his opinion, but… it was still something the doctor would probably frown upon.

So Sherlock wouldn’t tell him.

What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Besides, was it really any of his business what Sherlock did to his own body? Sure, there was all that about caring and friendship, but… in the end, if he wanted deep, permanent scars all up and down his body, then that was his decision and no one else’s.

_But… did he really want that?_

“ _Too late…_ ” He murmured to himself as he replaced the bottle in the back of the drawer and covered it back up with socks, making sure they were still in their proper index before shutting it.  

He turned on his heel and looked around the room introspectively for several minutes.

Nothing was changing, yet.

In the meantime… he decided he might as well use his last half an hour of total mental acuity to make sure there was nothing about the current case that he’d missed, nothing about the evidence that he just hadn’t linked together yet.

At the moment, the ‘evidence’ consisted only of the photos of the murder victims, the police report, and that knife that Moriarty had left at the scene.

And John had left the knife…?

_In the kitchen cupboard, second one up on the left._

It took him only a few moments to locate everything, and spread it all out on the floor of the living room since there were no clear spaces on any of the tables.

Everything looked exactly as he’d remembered it, all the details checked out…

He knelt on the rug, poring over the photos again before rifling through the report, spreading the papers out in a big semi-circle around him so he could fact check quickly as he worked, even though he had most of it committed to memory already. Better safe than sorry.

At last he turned his attention to the knife.

It slowly started to register in his mind just how heavy it was beginning to feel, much too unwieldy and awkward in his now slightly uncoordinated fingers.

The pills were starting to take effect.

Sherlock sat back on his heels, trying to keep his head level, though it felt as if it were spinning in circles.

_The room was perfectly still._

_Maybe that third pill hadn’t been such a brilliant idea…_

The knife slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor, and he sat there looking at it for much too long before it occurred to him that he ought to pick it back up.

But he couldn’t quite seem to get his hand to do what he wanted it to, at first only succeeding in pushing the knife a little farther away from him across the floor. With a growl of frustration he lunged forward and grabbed it firmly; it was only when he looked down and saw the blood that he realized he was gripping it by the blade.

Sometimes when a person gets a cut or a scrape he doesn’t notice until he looks down and sees it, and once he does he finally begins to feel the pain.

Sherlock did not.

He opened his hand slowly, staring down at the parallel slices along his palm and fingers, watching the blood drip, but feeling nothing. He was hardly even aware that he wasn’t feeling something he should be, transfixed by the vivid red.

This hadn’t been part of the plan.

_Had there been a plan…?_

Who knew how much time passed while the simple slices held him spellbound, but at last a thought forced itself into his mind and he finally moved again.

He really couldn’t feel. Every nerve in his body seemed deadened, and if he weren’t consumed by curiosity he would have reflected on what a relief that was.

As it was he could only focus on one question: _Just how numb was he, truly?_

Sober, he could have answered his own question fairly quickly—but now, like this, it seemed much more important and interesting to know firsthand. And there only seemed to be one way to find out.

He struggled with pulling his sleeve up for several minutes, and finally succeeded in ripping off one button and undoing the other so he could roll it up to the elbow.

_The shirt would be ruined._

_So what?_

The knife hid from him, and he twisted around to locate it, finding it next to his left foot.

It still felt heavy and cumbersome, but he managed it determinedly and set it against the pale skin of his inner arm and held it there for ages, unsure whether he was trying to feel or to remember something that nagged at the back of his mind.

He couldn’t do either.

Sherlock stared at the edge of the blade pressed against his skin.

_Was that even his…?_

It was so odd, to see but not to feel, to be utterly desensitized when he knew there was supposed to be pain here.

Even when he pushed down and dragged the knife back, even when the blood spilled, there was nothing.

Nothing at all.

The second and third cuts were deeper, deeper than they should have been, but he couldn’t tell.

The bright scarlet fell in drops and spattered onto the crisp white sheets of paper surrounding him on the floor, like a crime scene all its own.

A crime scene in which Sherlock would be both the perpetrator and the victim. A case he couldn’t solve because he didn’t want to.

The knife slipped again.

His hand was now dripping with his own blood, making it harder to hold the murder weapon.

_Wait a minute… murder weapon…_

_Contaminated evidence._

He struggled hazily to recall if the knife had already been checked for prints and DNA. It must have been.

Then this would be okay. He hadn’t ruined anything, this time.

But… just to be quite sure that he really was numb to the bone… one more slice…

 

+++++++++++

 

John almost couldn’t contain his grin as he caught a cab from the clinic and settled in for the ride.

Somehow he’d managed to convince Sarah to let them have another go, and see if they could work things out this time, hopefully with less violent Chinese circus acts.

He was already so hot under the collar that the cold had hardly bothered him on the walk out to the street, and he almost found himself humming.

He’d make it work, this time.

He would. Somehow.

The cab dropped him off at 221B, and he climbed out and searched about in his pocket for his key, unlocking the door and letting himself inside.

A quick glance at his mobile told him it was nearly 6 o’clock pm. He must have spent longer than he thought he had talking to Sarah.

He shrugged and went up the steps—but before he even opened the door he stopped short.

He could hear a faint sound from inside, like a muffled groan.

A chill snaked up his spine, making the hair at the nape of his neck prickle.

Something felt wrong.

 

 


	33. Shock

John opened the door, and—everything looked ordinary, just the way he’d left it that morning.

And then he turned his head.

Sherlock lay on his back on the living room floor, surrounded by an excess of scarlet that had stained his white shirt and soaked into the carpet. The knife was resting inches away from his limp, open hand, and as John rushed over his eyes flickered open to look up at him.

He mumbled wearily, “ _I can feel it…_ ”

“Shh, don’t talk.” John was aware that his voice wasn’t steady, but there was nothing he could do about it. He fell to his knees beside the detective and quickly assessed the damage as best he could, what with all the blood.

From what he could see there were at least four dangerously deep lacerations on his forearm, right over where the previous scars had been healing. And if John’s expertise as a doctor was anything to go by, he must have been laying there for several hours, at least.

_That was a lot of time for blood loss._

Sherlock’s eyes had begun to flutter closed again, and John reached out to pat his cheek frantically.

“No, stay with me. Sherlock, I need you to stay awake for now, okay? I know you’re tired, but just try to stay awake.” He worked as quickly as his shaking hands would allow, stripping off his own jacket and wrapping it around the detective’s arm in an attempt to slow the bleeding, biting his lip as Sherlock hissed and winced at the pressure.

His dark curls stood out against his ashen skin, his eyes half-lidded, and his breaths tense and shallow. Two fingers laid against his wrist revealed a quick, feeble pulse.

_Too much blood..._

"Stay with me. You're going into shock. Just listen to my voice—don't you dare go to sleep. Don't you dare." He knew he was rambling, but he just needed to speak, to say anything, to give Sherlock a line to hold onto and keep him there.

John pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialled for an ambulance, continuing to talk all the while.

"Sherlock. Open your eyes. Come back. I'm right here, you dickhead—don't you fucking dare do this to me! Stay right here! Don't even think about giving up—we need you here. I need you." His voice broke, and he sucked in a deep breath.

Sherlock's fingers twitched and he let out a low groan as someone picked up on the other end of the line, and John quickly rattled off the address and gave them the necessary information.

Once he'd hung up there was silence for a long moment, and the air in the flat suddenly seemed unacceptably oppressive and difficult to breathe.

"Just hang on. They'll be here in ten minutes." He desperately hoped he was right—In fact, less time would be even better—because even with his constant reminders to stay awake he wasn't sure how much longer Sherlock could last.

"Sherlock? Can you look at me? I need to know you can hear me, okay?"

His fingers twitched again, and John was suddenly reminded of his days as an army doctor, holding the hand of an injured soldier, trying to keep him conscious as they waited for the field nurses to get there.

Sherlock made a tough soldier.

He reached down and put his hand over Sherlock's, ignoring the blood, and held it tightly. 

He was still holding his hand and talking to him when the ambulance arrived, and stayed close by while the paramedics worked.

 

+++++++++

 

John paused in his pacing at the end of the hall.

It had been nearly an hour since Sherlock had been brought in to A&E, and with no word so far the minutes seemed to drag by unbearably slowly.

He leaned against the wall under the glowing exit sign and let out a heavy breath.

“Why…? _Why me…?_ ” He put his face in his hands, shutting his eyes. “ _Why him…?_ ”

Life was not supposed to be this way.

 _Sherlock_ was not supposed to be this way.

John had thought he was strong. He’d thought he was fine, for the time being.

_Fine, but not okay._

_Not even fine._

_Not even close._

How could Sherlock do this to him? Didn’t he _ever_ stop to think what it might be like for John, coming home to find _that?_ Didn’t he ever think that that might _hurt?_

Just the other day he had said that meeting John had kept him alive.

_Well apparently that wasn’t cutting it anymore._

He gritted his teeth and slammed his fist against the wall, unable to suppress the anger welling up inside him.

He knew he was really just worried for his friend, but he couldn’t handle being worried for so long, so rage seemed a suitable substitute. And it gave him a place to re-direct his emotions, to keep himself from feeling so trapped and helpless.  

“How dare you. How _fucking dare you._ You _arse—_ “ He kept his voice low even though there was no one else around. “You _idiot_ —how could you do this to me? How could you think this was alright? Well it’s not. I _hate_ this! _I hate you!_ ”

John stopped to keep from choking, and swallowed.

_He didn’t hate him._

_He didn’t hate Sherlock Holmes._

_He couldn’t._

_But he hated what he did to himself._

_He hated that anything and anyone could make him feel like he had to do that._

 He rubbed his sleeve over his eyes and took a deep breath as a door opened at the other end of the hall and a doctor came out and looked around for him. John paced over, keeping his jaw set in anticipation. “Is he…?”

“He’s stable now.”

“Oh Jesus…” John’s knees suddenly felt like jelly, and all at once he was aware of just how tired he was. “Oh… _thank god…_ ”

“However, by the time he was brought in his body had started going into hypovolemic shock because of the blood loss. Even though we’ve done everything we can, there could be complications. We won’t know until he wakes up.”

The bottom felt as if it had dropped out of John’s stomach.

_Complications?_

+++++++++++

_'Brain damage.'_

Somehow that hit even harder than the _'possibility of death.'_

Probably because it was fairly clear now that Sherlock would live. But that... for him, that would be a fate a thousand times worse than death.

And it would be his fault.

Not knowing was torture. The anticipation, the guessing and wondering, was agony.

There was no way of knowing until Sherlock woke up.

In the meantime, however, all John could do was stay by him, and wait and hope.

And it just might kill him.


	34. About that

Over the next few hours John found that his focus kept reverting back to just trying to keep himself from throwing up.

He hadn’t felt this nervous since returning home from Afghanistan.  

Every little while a nurse would stop to ask him if he was alright, and at last he was approached by a small, professional-looking woman who informed him that she was a "resident mental health nurse," and said that she wanted to speak to him about "the patient." She probably introduced herself by name, as well, but he didn't care enough to remember it.

She escorted him to her office with an offer of coffee or tea, which he refused. Once he had taken a seat and she was settled behind the desk she jumped right in, skimming through her notes.

"I understand that this is difficult for you, but in order to make informed decisions I need to ask you a few questions. Are you family, or at least close?"

"Yeah, I mean... I'm his friend. Close."

She nodded, making a little note. "Alright then. Had you been in contact with him much before this happened?"

"We're flatmates."

"Mmhmm... Can you tell me if the patient had been exhibiting any signs of dangerous behavior toward himself, or anyone else?"

"His name is Sherlock." John's fists clenched in his lap. "And... Yeah. He'd... had problems with self harm for a while."

She nodded again, checking something off. "Did _Sherlock_ ever say anything about having intentions to end it all?"

"...No. Not actively. He told me he didn't want to anymore."

"Anymore?"

"That's what I said. Maybe in the past, but not now."

"Hmm... So this was just a sudden thing? Maybe a spur of the moment decision. Have you ever had him evaluated for depression?"

John sat there for a moment.

Why did it feel so strange to think of having Sherlock 'evaluated'?

Probably because he was always the one doing the evaluations.

Because as erratic and eccentric as he was, he was also in control, or so it seemed, and so self-aware that it had never even come up.

But, with everything considered...

That didn't sound like such an impossible diagnosis.

"Sir?"

"Ah... sorry. No, he's never been evaluated, that I know of." _He'd have to remember to ask Mycroft about that later, come to think of it._

“You said you two were flatmates, correct? Then will you be around to keep an eye on him?”

“I can try.”

“Okay, then I’m finished here.” She straightened her notes and looked up at him. “We’re going to hold him for about 72 hours, and then, depending on a small assessment I’ll be giving him, we can release him into your care.”

“…That’s it? That’s _all_ you’re going to do? My best friend just tried to—“ He covered his mouth and took a moment. “Can’t you _help_ him?”

She looked sympathetic. “If you would like us to we can admit him to a 30 day stay in the psychiatric wing. They’ll keep an eye on him there, and he’d undergo a treatment program with our registered psychotherapist. But we’ll only do that if he, you, or his next of kin insist on it, or if we deem him still a serious risk to himself.”

John couldn’t help but imagine Sherlock in a ward, complaining non-stop, deducing other patients and nurses to tears, and ranting about how inane and dreadful everything was.

He’d hate it there. He’d probably kill himself.

_Oh god…_

John bit the inside of his cheek hard, repeating a steady stream of _‘shut up, shut up, shut up,’_ inside his head.

All he said out loud was, “No, you’re right. That would do more harm than good, trust me. I know him. A bit.”

 

+++++++++++

 

John had almost fallen asleep when something woke him.

He had been sitting in the chair by Sherlock’s bed, keeping hold of his hand because he wanted to be there for him and he wasn’t sure what else to do.

A returned pressure on his hand roused him from a light doze, and he blinked and lifted his head.

Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, but he was stirring slightly, and he mumbled under his breath.

“Sherlock?”

He groaned, obviously still groggy. “…J’hn…?”

“Right here. How are you feeling?”

After a moment of consideration, he muttered, “Numb…”

“Yeah, well, they’ve got you on a nice cocktail of painkillers. Right up your alley, huh? Sorry, I…”

“John—” He moved to sit up, but John pushed him back down carefully, much to his irritation. “I’m not an invalid...”

“Right now, you are. You’ve got nearly 36 stitches in that arm, and I don’t want you moving it yet.”

“About that…” He shut his eyes again and sighed wryly.

John paused. “Yeah. About that. I… uh…”

“It wasn’t what it looked like.”

“Don’t lie to me anymore, okay, Sherlock?! I don’t need to hear that right now! I’m just trying to work this all out, and I’ve had to make judgment calls and have really uncomfortable discussions about this with some quack and I can’t even—”

“I’m not lying! I… I wasn’t in my right mind, at the time.”

“ _No shit!_ Do you have _any_ idea what that was like, coming home to that?! I didn’t sign up for this!”

“I know you didn’t! But if you feel that strongly about it, then go.”

John let out a big breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “When the _hell_ are you going to understand this? That’s _why I can’t go._ Because I care. You’re going to kill me, eventually, but I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s illogical—”

“Would you shut up, for once? I’ve had enough logic for a while. I just want an explanation. I want to know why.”

“Like I said, I wasn’t in my right mind. I had… er… self-medicated. Which, apparently, didn’t do wonders for my decision making faculty, and… well…”

“Jesus… What the hell did you take?”

“Medical grade painkillers. Possibly too many.”

“ _You think?!_ No, wait, let me answer that— _you didn’t think!_ Why the _fuck_ would you fuck around with that kind of thing?! That’s not safe!”

“John, when have I _ever_ been safe? It’s not in my blood.”

“Yeah, well, I just… I’m doing the best I can, Sherlock. Don’t make this harder for me.”

Sherlock leaned back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. “Why do you have to act as if this is your responsibility? I can tell you, it’s not. I’ll take care of myself, and if anything happens then it was my fault and not yours. That’s the way the world works. Get used to it.”

“No. Maybe that’s how it used to work, but not anymore. I’m your friend, you’re my friend, and friends take care of each other. Get used to _that,_ you twat.”

Sherlock turned his head to glance over at him, and almost smiled. “I… I am glad you came home, John.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	35. Dead serious

John shifted on the bench, glancing up at the door to Sherlock’s hospital room for the fifteenth time.

It was still closed.

But at least there wasn’t any yelling from inside, so far.

He had been hoping beyond hope that the detective could behave himself and keep his cool with the psychiatrist they brought in to interview him prior to release, to make sure he was fit to go home.

It seemed to be taking forever.

When at last the door opened and the psychiatrist emerged, John had almost but not quite nodded off, but he looked up at the sound of footsteps, clearing his throat.

“So…?”

“He checked out fine, so I’m giving him clearance to leave. You should still keep an eye on him, though.”

John nodded and glanced at the door, getting to his feet. “Thanks.”

He waited until the psychiatrist left to go file the report before he went in. Sherlock was sitting up in bed, regarding the IV with distaste.

“Hey. I saw the shrink out there. How did it go?”

“Irritating beyond belief, and a complete waste of everyone’s time.” He scowled. “I want to go home.”

“We will, eventually. She said you’re good to go, but there’s still a few hours left until they release you.”

“That’s stupid, I’m recovered. I’m ready to go home now.”

“That’s protocol. They have to follow it.” He glanced at the tray on the side table. “Not going to eat anything, are we?”

“Hmph. I had more important things to do. You take it, if you’re so keen to have someone eat it.”

“Er, thanks but no thanks.” He took a seat in the chair and settled in.  “Look, Sherlock… we need to talk.”

“No we don’t.”

“For heaven’s sake…”

“We don’t need to talk. There’s nothing to talk about. It was an accident. It won’t happen again, and that’s the end of it.”

“Is that a promise? No, wait, nevermind, I’m not going there again… Just… hear me out, okay? This… all of this… needs to stop. I think… maybe you should think about… trying some medications. Real ones, not whatever the hell you took the other day.”

Sherlock stared at him in silence for a few seconds, his eyes narrowing. Then he cracked a smile, and laughed lightly. “Good one, John. You almost had me, but you should have heard how ridiculous you sounded, and the look on your face—“

“Sherlock. I’m not kidding.”

The smile disappeared instantly, replaced by a gaze of intense scrutiny. “…I don’t follow.”

“I’m dead serious. I’ve tried everything I could possibly think of to help you, without going in this direction, but it obviously isn’t working. It’s time to try something else.”

Sherlock’s eyes were boring holes into him, and John would have been hard-pressed to pick one emotion to describe everything he saw reflected in them.

“No. It isn’t. I said it was an accident. I’m alright, I’m fine.”  

"Yeah, that's not going to hold any water."

"I don't need any medication! There's absolutely nothing wrong with me!"

"Do I even need to point out what's wrong with that sentence?!" John gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. “Look where you’re sitting! Do I need to remind you how you got here?!”

“How many times do I have to tell you it was an _accident?!_ I was basically high!”

“ _That’s the problem!_ You do things like that, and that leads to this, and I—I can’t handle any more of this. Okay? I can’t do this anymore. I really need you to help me help you.”

Sherlock was silent, and it was effectively impossible to tell what he was thinking. “…That’s… something friends do, isn’t it? That would help _you_ …? If I…”

“Yes. That would help me more than I can describe. It would be a huge weight off my shoulders.”

He bit his lip. “ _Help you…_ I suppose I could do that. Maybe. But if it’s too hard—“

_Of course._

_If you won’t do it for you, do it for me._

_Just try._

 

 

 


	36. Side effects

“Need anything?” John threw his coat over the back of his chair as he came up the steps into the living room, followed by a sullen-looking Sherlock, who curled up on the couch almost immediately.

“No.”

“Right, well…” He cleared a space in one of the cabinets and set a few pill bottles in it. “I’m putting your painkillers and your… other meds in here, okay? Just know that I’ve counted them all and I’ll know if you’ve taken more than a single dose, so don’t do anything stupid.”

Sherlock only gave an irritated groan in response.

He clearly still wasn’t in love with the idea of taking anti-depressants, even if John, being a doctor, had been able to prescribe them for him without having to go through a clinic.

“Sherlock? There are still some things we have to clear up before we start this officially, okay?” John went over and settled into his chair, tapping his fingers against the arm. “You’re going to have to take them once every day, and I’d suggest doing that at night because they might make you drowsy. But that might actually be a good thing, knowing you. It’s going to take at least a week for them to start making any noticeable difference. And once you start taking them it isn’t a good idea to just stop, because there could be withdrawal symptoms. But first of all… I’m glad that you’ve agreed to do this, but I do have to tell you that there could be side effects.”

He paused for a minute to see if Sherlock was going to say anything, but it seemed the detective was content to just listen, for now.

At least, John hoped he was listening.

“Even if depression is what they’re for… in some people it just makes it worse. Sometimes people even… have suicidal thoughts while they’re on it. So if you start… you know… tell me. Seriously. Say something.”

Sherlock rolled over and looked at him critically. "And you would willingly prescribe that?"

"Well... It doesn't always happen, and if it doesn't then the benefits should outweigh the risks. I'm just telling you so you'll be aware, and we can deal with it."

"Hmph. It sounds counter-productive to me." The detective scoffed and rolled back over on the couch, but he stopped with a little catch of breath.

"Your arm hurts, huh? Here... I'll get it for you, just this once. Don't expect room service or anything, though."

Sherlock grumbled as John pushed himself up and went to the cabinet to retrieve the painkillers.

"I don't want any."

"What?" John paused and turned to look at him. "But—"

"They interfere with my mind. I don't want distractions right now. I don't have any more time for them."

"Sherlock. You do have time for this. What you don't have time for is pain. I'm only going to give you the minimum dose, so you don't have to worry about a repeat of what happened the other day. Doctor’s orders. Okay?"

 

+++++++++++

 

Over the next few days the medication _did_ seem to be having _some_ sort of effect on him.

Sherlock was his usual irritating self, just as patronizing and arrogant as he always was.

One morning found John rising early for work, still groggy and half-asleep. He got himself ready and shuffled downstairs for breakfast, blinking in the sunlight coming in through the windows—but as soon as he reached the kitchen he stopped dead.

There was something pooled on the tabletop, dripping off the edge and onto the floor where it splashed onto the linoleum, bright red. Blood had spread out and seeped under the microscope, onto the newspaper, under the plate of uneaten toast, and tinted the shards of broken glass on the table with its vibrant scarlet hues.

_A lot of blood._

_But not a lot of Sherlock._

"Sherlock?" John could feel his heart-rate skipping, turning quickly to look under the table, out in the living room, in the detective's room, and even in the bathroom, but there was no sign of him anywhere.

The flat was effectively deserted--but where could he have gone?

And how far could he have gotten...?

Deciding there was no time to waste, John hurtled down the stairs and out the door, and nearly collided with a tall mass of dress shirt and jacket on the doorstep.

"John? Going somewhere? Surely you're not that late to work yet, you can slow down a little."

"Sh—" John finally caught a breath and stared up at the detective, unkempt and inquisitive but most certainly not bloody, and definitely not displaying symptoms of blood loss. "Sherlock! _What the hell?!_ "

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I—the kitchen—on the table, it was all—but you're not—I thought you had—"

Sherlock studied him for a moment, and then understanding dawned in his eyes. "Oh... that. Hmm. No, it's fine, I was simply conducting an experiment concerning the decomposition of blood, in light of our recent case, and the beaker happened to shatter. I didn't feel like cleaning it up, and for some reason the sight of all of it like that compelled me to come out here for a... breath of fresh air, as you might put it."

All the breath hissed out of John's lungs in one massive exhale, and he started to become aware of the surge of adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins, leaving him weak and feeling like his limbs were made of overcooked spaghetti. "Don't... don't scare me like that again. Sherlock? _Don't do that._ "

"I'm not exactly sure what I could have done differently. You're the one who over-reacted."

"I'm not over-reacting! I come downstairs to find something like that and I—I just start imagining things, okay? Just don't do that to me."

 

+++++++++++

 

John groaned and rolled over, trying to burrow under the pillow to drown out the noise coming from somewhere nearby. An overly bright light was glaring out from the bedside table, and no matter how hard he tried to block it out the buzzing kept on relentlessly until he was forced to sit up and reach for his mobile, blinking blearily.

He could barely make out the words on the screen.

 

**_5 new messages:_ **

 

_John. -SH_

_Are you awake? -SH_

_I need you -SH_

_Come to Tower Bridge, please. -SH_

_Immediately. -SH_

 

It took a few moments for the meaning of what he'd just read to penetrate into his sleepy brain, but when it did a new rush of questions and worry came crashing down onto his head and he flung the duvet off and went bumping around in the dark trying to get dressed as quickly as he could.

_What time was it...?_

The blinding face of his mobile told him it was nearly six o'clock in the morning, but the light outside his window was barely there.

Down the stairs and out onto the street, the early morning chill caught him by surprise, but he ignored it in favor of worrying about other, more pressing things. He caught a cab and directed its driver to the bridge, all the while biting his tongue and typing out replies to Sherlock that ultimately went unanswered.

When he finally got out and stood at the foot of the bridge the sun must have begun to rise, but any light was cast in a dull gray tone by the heavy, clinging mist that cloaked everything around him. It hung cold over the bridge, obscuring all but a dim outline of the towers, like great hulking shadows high above him.

_But where was Sherlock?_

There were few people out and about at that hour, and his footsteps as he hurried out onto the bridge sounded too loud, though they were quickly lost in the mist. He dared to call out a few times, but again, he didn't get an answer.

Why was Sherlock out on a bridge at six am? And why the hell did he need John so badly?

There—another shadow materialized in the distance, and he picked up the pace.

"Sherlock?"

The figure turned, and as he neared him he could just make out the familiar long coat, blue scarf, and messy curls. He was standing by the railing, hands in his pockets, the slight breeze toying with his hair and coat. "Ah, John. Took you long enough."

John tried not to pant too loudly, and took a step toward him. "What are you doing out here?"

"What does it look like?" He had just opened his mouth to tell him exactly what it all looked like when Sherlock waved a hand. "No, never mind, don't answer that. Have you got your mobile on you? Of course you do, you take it everywhere. Hand it over." He held out a hand expectantly.

John just stood there. His mouth may or may not have fallen open.

"Well?" Sherlock twitched his fingers impatiently. "I'm waiting. My mobile was about to run out of battery, but I didn't want to come back to the flat quite so soon, so I might as well borrow yours. I hope you won't mind."

The swirl of adrenaline and worry in John's veins had begun to boil into a fiery blend of magma and acidic poison.

"You. You fucking woke me up at six o'clock in the damn morning, scaring me half to death, just so I could BRING YOU _MY_ BLOODY MOBILE? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?"

Sherlock looked mildly surprised. "Well, I did need a mobile... what if I'd needed to call someone? Mine was dead."

"WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING OUT HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE?!"

"I'm _taking a walk, what does it look like?!_ I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't stand being cooped up inside the flat for another morning, so I went out!"

"YOU'RE KIDDING ME. YOU'RE _BLOODY KIDDING ME._ I DID _NOT_ JUST RACE ALL THE WAY OUT HERE FOR _THIS._ YOU _WANKER!_ YOU _FUCKING DICKHEAD!_ YOU—"

                    

 

++++++++++

 

"You know I did warn you."

"Hmm?" The detective glanced up at him from the couch, with a perfect look of innocence. "Warn me?"

"Yes. I told you I'd counted the exact number of pills that were in this bottle, and I'd know if you took too many."

He sat up, his eyes narrowing. "Is that so?"

"Sherlock. I know what you did. It's no use playing innocent. There are three pills less than there should be in here, and I know for a fact that I didn't take them. So that leaves you."

He grumbled and curled up on the cushions. "I've done no such thing. Don’t be ridiculous, John. I've been doing exactly as the 'doctor ordered.'"

"I told you I didn't want you to lie to me anymore, too, didn't I? I'm trying to help you, but if you keep doing things like this—"

"I TOLD YOU I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING!" The rise in the detective's voice was gone as suddenly as it had appeared, and he cleared his throat and straightened his dressing gown.

"Oh? Well then what happened to the three pills, _oh great genius?_ " John snapped, his nerves beginning to wear thin.

"You."

"What?"

"You happened to them. Specifically, you lost them under the couch. Two nights ago. You were exhausted, you dropped the bottle, the pills spilled, you thought you'd picked them all up, but--well." He let one of his arms loll off the side of the couch and tapped the floor with his fingertips. "I'm sure you'll find them under there somewhere. However, with the amount of dust and who knows what else clinging to them I'm not sure how much I'd like to swallow them, now."

John was silent for a moment.

He'd been absolutely sure he'd picked up every single one... _So sure..._

"Fine. _You check._ " He crossed his arms and glared at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow.

"Me? You're the one who spilled them."

"You're closer."

"Hmm, let me think... no." Sherlock rolled over with a huff and turned his back on the room.

Fine... 

John grumbled and deliberately bumped into the detective's shoulder as he bent to look under the couch, and... _There._

One, two, three pills.

Just like Sherlock had said there would be.

_He probably owed him an apology._

But that would have to come later, when he'd cooled down a bit. And besides, he'd had every right in the world to be worried.

_Sherlock wasn't making that any easier for him, either._

++++++++++

 

John stumped up the front steps and into the living room, slinging his bag off his shoulder and tossing it onto the table, just glad to finally be home from work.

He hardly noticed the heavy silence that hung over the flat, and didn't pay all that much attention to the detective hunched in the armchair, very still and focussed. If Sherlock looked up as he came in, he missed it. 

He sighed as he crossed over to the kitchen to start a pot of tea. The day had been long and tiring, and it felt hours later than it really was. The early sunset wasn't doing much for that.

The shrill whistle of the kettle, growing slowly in strength, seemed to shake the detective from whatever spell he was under.

"John."

"What is it now?" John didn't bother turning around, too busy pouring his tea and stirring in the milk. He didn't exactly mean to be cross, but he was too tired to filter his words, or his tone.

Sherlock only repeated his name, as if determined to get his full attention. 

"I said _what?_ " He finally turned back to him, blowing over the steaming surface of his tea to cool it.

Sherlock was holding something out to him: a pistol, with the butt of the gun toward him carefully. 

"...That's yours, isn't it?" John lowered his cup slightly, looking down at it. "What do you want me to take it for?"

"Just—"

"Oh, I see. You want me to shoot somebody for you, don't you?" The little burst of derisive laughter came out of its own accord, and he almost rolled his eyes. "You want me to risk my job, and my life, again, for some case, hmm? Who is it this time? Moriarty? Because I think you could do that just as well as I could. Probably better, since I suppose you could figure out where the hell he's hiding, couldn't you?"

Sherlock leaned forward and pushed the gun toward him. "Take it. I don't like asking you but—"  

"You know what? Maybe I'm too tired. Maybe for once I don't want to go off and shoot somebody. Did you ever think of that? Yeah, sorry, Sherlock, but you're going to have to find somebody else for this one."

"John. _Stop._ " The look in Sherlock's eyes momentarily caught him off guard, so intense and unwavering as he stared steadily into John's face. "Shut up and take the damn gun. I'm... having _thoughts._ " 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	37. Let me try

"Oh god..." John nearly dropped his mug, but managed to hold onto it. "Oh god, Sherlock... I..."

The detective averted his eyes stubbornly, but John almost fancied he could hear his heart beating in the quiet flat.

_That heart he did have._

_No matter how reliably informed he'd been that he didn't._

John set his mug aside quickly and took the gun from him, emptying it of bullets and slipping them into his pocket. "How long? I mean... When did it start? Why didn't you say something?"

"I just did. And... about a week ago. I thought I could control it, but..." He glanced at the floor. "Look what you've done to me. You said I should do this—and now look at me. I've been _altered._ This... _thing_ has broken my self-control. I can't do this anymore, John. I'm finished." 

"Well... I... Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Look—I'm sorry. The nurse made it sound like that side effect wasn't very common, so I thought... I didn't expect, really..."

"But it did. It's made me _weak._ "

John put the gun on the table next to his mug and knelt awkwardly beside the armchair at Sherlock's feet. It seemed right to be close, and standing over him was even more awkward.

He sighed quietly, and when he spoke his voice was soft. "I'm sorry, Sherlock.... I just wanted to help. I... didn't mean to ever put you in that place again."

Sherlock glanced back at him, eyes ever searching and calculating, trying to understand everything— _but did he ever really?_

"I hate it here. I need to make it stop. John, make it stop."

"Um... I don't... Jesus—I don't know how. We'll have you stop taking it, obviously—but they said you shouldn't stop all at once, but... what do you do in this situation...?"

"You're the doctor! _Help me!_ " Sherlock quickly shut his mouth and looked down again.

John hesitated.

_He hated seeing his friend like this, knowing it was because of something he'd started..._

_And he had no idea how to fix it._

“I’m going to figure this out. We are. And in the meantime, I won’t leave you alone. Alright? I’m going to make sure you’re safe, but I’m also… I’m…  going to try and help you be as comfortable as possible until we can get this fixed, okay?”

“You don’t… have to do that. I’ve already given you my gun, and I’ve gotten rid of all the blades, so I should be alright.”

“Fuck it, I’m not going to work tomorrow.” John shook his head and looked up at him. “I’m not going to leave you alone like this. It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that… Yeah. I don’t want you to have to be alone.”

Sherlock drew his feet up onto the chair defensively. Now that John was really looking there were shadows beneath his eyes, and there was something behind them now that was even more unsettling than the mania had been. Altogether something was just… off. Like a string had snapped on an uncared for violin, or the safety switch had been torn off a gun.

_It may well have been a long time coming._

“…I don’t blame you for not trusting me.” Sherlock mumbled, more to himself than to John. “I don’t either. Anymore.”

It was probably the wrong thing to do.

Sherlock probably thought he was a twat for doing it.

Maybe it didn’t help at all.

But at that moment the only thing John could think to do was to reach up and take the detective’s hand, kneeling there in front of his chair. To hold it firmly, but not too tightly, just enough so Sherlock knew he was still there.

It had worked before, hadn’t it?

It had seen him through two hospital beds, and one bloody floor… and _damn it,_ if it had gotten them that far then it would have to work now.

Because what else did John have to offer?

He’d already tried to help by prescribing medication—and all that had done was push Sherlock back off the edge into that dark, cold place he probably never wanted to see again in his life.

So what else could he do?

_He could be there._

He could care, and he could stay, and if that’s what it took then that’s what he was going to do.

Sherlock didn’t resist or pull his hand away, and after a minute John was surprised to find that he returned the pressure slightly.

A silent acceptance of his company.

Perhaps, in a way, also a gesture of forgiveness.

Or maybe that was just John’s imagination.

 

+++++++++++

 

No one in 221B slept much that night.

Sherlock wouldn’t—or couldn’t—and John was determined to stay with him for as long as it took.

He could call in tomorrow and take the day off from work.

Hell, he’d have to take the whole week off.

There was no way he was leaving the detective all by himself in the flat for hours on end. And not just because he was worried about what might happen if he did—but because being isolated would just make it a thousand times worse, he was sure.

After an hour and a half John had begun to feel stiff and sore from sitting on the rug, and he muttered something to Sherlock about moving to the couch.

John took a seat at one end of the couch, and Sherlock curled up on his side on the rest of it. From that position John could only see the top of his head and part of his back, and after a while he began to feel like he wasn’t being all that helpful, just sitting there.

An idea had crept into his head, though, and he slowly reached down and laid a hand over Sherlock’s shoulder.

The detective turned his head to look back at him warily. “…What?”

“I just want to try something. It might help you relax a little.”

“I don’t need to relax, I need to make this stop—“

“I know, I know… but for right now, just let me try this. Okay?” He put his other hand just above Sherlock’s shoulder blade and, very, very carefully, began to massage his tense muscles.

Sherlock immediately flinched, and his breath caught in his throat before he could make a sound.

“Sorry… you’re really tense… I’ll try to be gentler, but it’ll hurt before it gets better.” John waited a few seconds to see if he would be allowed to carry on, and when Sherlock didn’t move he continued, albeit even more carefully.

It took a while for him to start to loosen up a bit, but he eventually rolled onto his stomach to give John better access to his back and shoulders. John kept on even after his hands got tired, determined to help any way he could.

Once he’d moved down from his shoulders to his back he moved his hands in gentle circles, pressing a little more now that he wasn’t complaining so much. But as soon as one of his hands progressed down to his side Sherlock suddenly jerked and let out a gasp.

“Sherlock?” John stopped, frowning. “Are you okay?”

“I… I’m fine… I think.” He got his breath back, and nodded.

“What was that, then?”

“I don’t know, exactly… It was just surprising, and… uncomfortable.”

“Sherlock. Are you ticklish on your sides?”

The detective paused. “I don’t know. Maybe. Just… don’t do that again. I didn’t like it.”

How could someone get into their thirties and _not know_ they were ticklish?

_For someone like Sherlock… easily._

You can’t tickle yourself.

 

 

 

 


	38. Not-suicides

_Anxiety_

_Irritability_

_Depression and mood swings_

_Light-headedness_

_Dizziness and balance problems_

_Fatigue_

_Flu-like symptoms_

_Headache_

_Loss of coordination_

_Nausea_

_Nightmares_

_Tremors_

_Trouble sleeping_

 

As John looked over the list of possible withdrawal symptoms from the medication he'd had Sherlock taking, none of them looked particularly pleasant or appealing. But even if they did occur, the psychologist at the hospital had assured him that they would pass in about a week. And that was a hell of a lot better than just letting him live like he was now.

That wasn't living.

 

++++++++++

 

About four days after they had begun reducing the doses, John was almost glad to receive a call from Lestrade about a possible third victim in the string of not-suicides. He could only hope that the prospect of casework would incite some sort of reaction from the detective— _anything._

Anything would be better than the doleful, unresponsive silences and the long hours he spent motionless in the living room.

Even anger would have been easier to contend with.

John had no idea what to do for him when he was in this sort of blue funk.

But then, that wasn't all it was.

It wasn't like the usual sulk.

_It wasn't just boredom._

Just how many of the withdrawal effects, if any, he was experiencing, John couldn't tell. Sherlock wasn't exactly in a talking mood, and hadn't really been for the last week. Not that he would have told anyone if he was feeling like shit anyway.

That just wasn't how he operated.

When at first he'd mentioned the case to him Sherlock had turned his head to look at him, finally breaking his gaze away from the window, but otherwise hadn't responded much. It had taken a bit of encouragement and goading from John to at last convince him to go, but he eventually obliged.

_None too soon, either._

This would at least be an excuse to make sure he showered and changed his clothes.

Once he made sure Sherlock cleaned up a bit, he tried to get him to eat something before they went, but the detective simply wasn't interested. With a muttered promise to try again later, _or so help him god,_ John gave up and followed him out to the street, where they hailed a cab.

The drive to the victim's flat was a silent one, broken occasionally by John trying vainly to get Sherlock talking about the case, but in the end he was content to just look out the window, sometimes mumbling an offhanded _"hmm"_ in response to John's words.

When they arrived Lestrade was waiting for them. He led them upstairs to the scene, which turned out to be a modestly furnished flat, and the victim a young woman who had apparently died of blood loss from lacerations on her arms.

Anderson was working on the forensics team, and he scowled at them as they entered the room, no doubt still harbouring a grudge against John for punching Donovan.

 Sherlock took no notice of him.

“Okay, so, same as before?” John watched as Sherlock took stock of the flat, his eyes scanning over everything carefully.

The detective walked off into the other rooms, and John would have followed him if Anderson hadn’t volunteered an answer to his question, still scowling sourly.

“Yeah. It looks like the same sort of thing we saw before. We’re only here because we’re on the lookout for this sort of situation, and this one seemed suspicious because we don’t have a motive for the victim to off herself.”

“A motive? Isn’t that kind of…”

Anderson rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“No. Not really. I think you mean a reason, not a motive. She wasn’t a murderer.”

“Well, _somebody was!_ She’s dead alright, and it looks like she did it, but since it’s suspicious we’re going to have to hold out on deciding that.” His lip curled derisively. “ _Dear_ _Sherlock_ still insisting it was Moriarty?”

John was about to open his mouth to answer when Sherlock came back from his venture around the flat, walking right up to him and looking at him pointedly. "No."

"Sorry, no what?" John looked up at him and frowned in confusion.

"This wasn't Moriarty. Not this time. This was just a suicide."

"What do you mean? It fits the pattern for the rest—"

"No, _it doesn't._ " Sherlock's voice came across a little more forceful than he'd meant it to. "Look at it. She was depressed. It's obvious."

Anderson cocked his head sceptically. "You can't tell that just by looking at her flat."

"Yes, I can! Look. There's a bottle of medical grade hydrogen peroxide by the sink—It dissolves blood, and disinfects. Cleaning agent. It's sitting out because it was useful. In the kitchen, it isn't tidy, things are lying about everywhere—but every single one of the knives is put away in a closed drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. Well, not really, but I digress. Why would she do that? Because she didn't like being tempted while she made her tea in the afternoons. The medicine cabinet is bare of all but the essentials, except for bandages and antiseptic. None of her pencil sharpeners have blades. The bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen floors have been scrubbed well—bloodstains. She's got very new towels, but nothing else has been recently replaced, so she obviously wasn’t remodelling—more bloodstains. If her arms were in better shape you'd be able to see countless scars on them. So you see, if you would just look for more two seconds and pay some damn attention, _you'd know!_ "

Anderson just stared at him, and John bit his lip.

Sherlock could see because he knew exactly what he was looking for.

_Exactly._

“Well…” Anderson was clearly gearing up to try to offer some ‘brilliant’ ideas of his own. “You’re saying she was trying to kill herself for a while now? Like, practicing?”

“ _NO!_ ” Sherlock looked positively taken aback, and John began to wonder if they might end up with two bodies on the floor if Anderson didn’t wise up soon. “ _DON’T BE AN IDIOT!_ I know that’s a pretty tall order for you, but at least _try!_ ”

Fearing the worst, John made the decision to try and redirect the conversation, and took a step between them. “Okay. So it was a suicide. Sherlock, they think it’s suspicious because they don’t know why she would have. I suppose they asked some of her friends already. Any ideas?”

Sherlock paused as his focus on Anderson was momentarily broken, and he seemed to be thinking fast.

“I… She was in introvert.”

“How can you tell? And that’s not really a reason for this.”

“Look at her flat! She spent a lot of time in here, by herself. And no, it’s not, but she recently graduated from university, great student but probably not especially popular judging, from the state of her clothes. Not a judgement on her, exactly, just that she didn’t have anyone to show off for. She was clever… but not good with people. She… probably had fairly low self-esteem, so to compensate for that she acted haughty and even conceited. Perhaps she felt like she was the worst, so she acted like she was the best.”

“Now hold on!” Anderson broke in loudly. “You can’t tell me you figured _that_ out from something in here! You’re bluffing!”

“No. I’m just making an educated guess.” With a cold look, Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked out of the flat, leaving John blinking in his wake.

It took a few seconds for John to gather his wits about him again, but when he did he hurried after Sherlock without another word to Anderson. He caught up with him in the downstairs foyer, where the detective had paused by the door, leaning a hand against the wall for support.

“Sherlock?” He didn’t answer, and John took a step closer, trying to get a look at his face. “Dizzy?”

“Mm…”

“Come on. Deep breath.” He offered him an arm. “Let’s get you home, and you can lie down if you need to. I’ll even make you tea.”

 


	39. Mr. Anonymous

_Sherlock hadn't just been talking about the girl._

_It was too similar._

_An 'educated guess.'_

_He'd been self-analysing—but did he even realise he was doing that?_

_If he didn't, then..._

John was starting to get an idea.

It was a wild, crazy, far-fetched shot in the dark that might explode in his face at the slightest slip in wording or acting, but at the same time it was the best idea he'd had so far.

He spent over two hours poring over his email, trying to phrase it just right and make it sound as innocent and believable as possible. Whether any of that would work on the most observant man in London was no sure bet, but he could try.

At last he typed out the final word and sat there staring at it for a few minutes, reading back over every detail.

 

_"Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I am contacting you about a problem I have. It's not exactly a typical mystery, but it's a mystery to me, and they say you're the best, so I've decided to ask you for help._

_My problem is this: I have an addiction._

_I know that sounds like my own personal problem, and it is, but I don't know how to stop it. It’s very harmful and I've tried to quit, but things from my past keep coming back and haunting me, and make that very difficult._

_I never was very good with people, but that wasn't a reason for them to taunt and attack me when I was younger. I think they were afraid of me because I was different._

_I need to know what to do about this. I need to know why I can't quit._

_Maybe I could if I knew._

_Thank you,_

_Mr. Anonymous"_

 

This was a bad idea.

Sherlock would see right through it. He wouldn't be fooled for a second, and he would most certainly think—

John looked up as the door opened and Sherlock came in, and his mind temporarily went blank.

_No time to rethink things now._

_Last chance._

_Go for it._

_Good luck._

"Hey, Sherlock?" His voice was steadier than he'd expected it would be, which was heartening. "Um... I've just been checking the blog, and there's one that's a little strange, so I thought you might be interested. You could probably figure it out without even leaving the flat."

"A prospective client? Hmm... I could do with a little entertainment... What is it?"

Taking a deep breath, John began to read the message out-loud, keeping his fingers crossed.

A slight frown had begun to cross Sherlock's face as he listened.

"...I'm not a therapist. This isn't a case. Why the hell is he asking me?"

John exhaled heavily, but tried to disguise it as a cough.

Maybe this was so far-fetched it didn't even occur to the detective that it could be him.

_Thank god._

"Well, it's... Different. I think you could do well with this one. Probably wouldn't take all that long. I think you should try it."

"I don't have time to waste on such mundane—"

"You don't have anything else going on and you know it. Surely something in here stands out to you. One deduction. Just try."

"He's an idiot." Sherlock spoke matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"What? Why?"

"He just is. If he were better at life, perhaps he wouldn't be in this mess."

"That's... I mean, I don't expect empathy from you often, but that's really cold."

"It's the truth. Facts are often cold. Now, it isn't my job to fix broken things, so I would suggest you tell this 'client' to take his problems elsewhere. Maybe a good psychologist, if there were such a thing."

"Can't you just try? I feel really bad about just leaving this one alone."

Sherlock frowned. "Why? What special thing has he done to deserve your sympathy?"

"He's a human being. He has feelings. And I'm sure he's very important to somebody, even if he doesn't know it."

The detective was beginning to look sceptical, and more than a little confused. "So? It's still all his fault."

"No it isn't!" John's fists clenched. "It's not his fault at all, and he didn't deserve any of it, though I'm sure you think he did! He's innocent, okay? Leave him alone!"

"John? Why are you getting so worked up about this? It's just a client."

"Yes, but he's very important, too! He matters!"

"Not really. In the grand scheme of things—"

"Fuck the grand scheme! He needs help, and I— _we_ should give it to him!"

Sherlock stared at him, raising an eyebrow. “Well… if you insist… I could try. But you’re getting strangely passionate about this. You know him, don’t you?”

“No, he’s… just a client. I just think it sounds a bit sad.”

The detective shrugged and crossed the room, assuming a prone position on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin thoughtfully. “Fine. I’ll need more information.”

“I can get that for you.” John had to think quickly. “I’ll just email him back, and I can probably find out whatever you need to know. See? Not that hard.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, eyes shut. “I need to know what his addiction is.”

“No you don’t.”

“Hmm?” He opened his eyes and looked at him questioningly. “Why not?”

“Because… they’re all the same, in essence. You can figure it out without knowing that. Besides, he… probably would rather you not know. For privacy’s sake, you know.”

“Hmm… strange. But yes, I probably could. Then… I need to know what makes him different. People’s hatred of him could be justified, in which case there’s nothing I can do for him, short of putting him out of his misery.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Which part?”

John took a deep breath.

_Be detached._

_It’s okay._

“…Nothing. I’ll see if I can find out for you. Anything else you need to know?”

“Yes… why is he contacting _me_ instead of a professional? I would say he has trust issues, but I’m a complete stranger. It’s possible he’s just looking for attention; lonely people like him are often show-offs making desperate bids for any scrap of admiration or sympathy they can beg from the rest of the world, when in reality no one actually cares, and they’d be a thousand times better off doing something really useful. Ordinary people value that.”

“So… people would only care about him if he was useful?”

“Is some part of that difficult to understand? The world is a cold place, and if he’s not used to it by now then that’s not my problem. If you can get me that information, I’ll see what I can do, but if it’s boring I’m quitting. Understand?”

“…Yeah. I understand.”

 

 

 

 


	40. Www.

**_[ 15 May 2010, www.JohnWatson’sblog.com]_ **

**_ Fairytales _ **

****

_Well, it certainly has been while since I last posted anything. Been a bit busy. As you’ve all probably seen in the papers, Sherlock’s got to be quite the sensation recently. He’s had a few good cases that have got him noticed by the media, which I don’t think is really such a good thing, but at least it seems to be doing something nice for his ego._

_I say nice, when you all know I mean the opposite. But at the same time… I do mean it. I can’t tell you about the reasons why, because I’m sure he’d stab me in my sleep if I did, but I can tell you this:_

_Sherlock Holmes can be an annoying dick._

_But he’s also extraordinarily perceptive, and I don’t just mean that in a detective sort of way. He knows a lot more than he lets on. And he deserves a lot better than most people give him. So if you’re reading this (you know who you are) leave him alone already._

_Just a friendly bit of advice from an ex army doctor._

_Be nicer, and I’ll see if I can’t get him to apologize once in a blue moon. Maybe._

_Some personal things have been going on, and we could both use a little slack._

_Okay, on to the real subject of this post—‘Hansel and Gretel.’ Yes, those are the characters from that old fairy tale. That’s what I’m calling this case, because that’s what the theme was. I say theme because there really was one; the perpetrator left us all sorts of clues having to do with fairytales, a book of them, an envelope filled with bread crumbs, and a package of gingerbread men that were burned to a crisp. Sherlock says it was Moriarty. Everything’s Moriarty isn’t it. God._

_Anyway, there were two children, a brother and a sister, staying at a boarding school who were kidnapped. Nobody knew where the hell they’d been taken or why. But Sherlock, genius that he is, figured it all out from a footprint the kidnapper had left. He analysed it the lab, doing who knows what, and figured out exactly where the children had been taken._

_Turned out to be an abandoned sweet factory in Addlestone. They’d been left to fend for themselves there, starving, so they ate the chocolates that were lying around. But the kidnapper had apparently laced them with mercury, so he could kill them slowly—what sort of monster does that to kids?_

_Thank god Sherlock found them. They’re both alright, but the boy was in urgent care for a while. The funny thing was, when Sherlock went in to interview the little girl, she screamed her head off as soon as she saw him._

_I have no bloody clue what that was about, and I don’t think Sherlock does either. I know him, and I can tell when there’s real, genuine surprise in his eyes. Trust me, I’ve seen it._

_But it’s solved otherwise, since he keeps saying it was Moriarty, so I suppose that’s another one in the bag. Of course, it won’t be until they actually catch the guy, but it is in his book._

_Until next time, then._

_John W._

“Are you going to be typing on there all afternoon?” Sherlock rolled over on the sofa to look at him. “It’s starting to get annoying.”

“I’ve just finished, and typing is a necessary part of having a blog.”

“I don’t like your blog.”

“I know, but you like the cases we get because of it.” John ignored him, choosing instead to poke around on his email for a while.

It seemed these days that Sherlock was okay—which was probably a pretty good indicator that he wasn’t. With the side effects from the pills out of the way and a new volley of successful cases under his belt, his old walls of control had come back into play, and any and all interaction with other people would probably be guarded pretty damn well. That didn’t, of course, mean that John was giving up.

“Hmm. Speaking of—have you gotten a reply from that client? What was it… Mr. Anonymous? What kind of silly pseudonym is that, anyway…? Sounds like some sort of absurd online dating profile…”

John cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, I have. He says that what makes him different from other people is that he’s intelligent. He’s… um… extraordinarily clever.”

The detective’s brow furrowed as he listened, staring up at the ceiling, and he almost scoffed out-loud. “Very likely. I’m _sure_ he is.”

Deciding not to comment, John went on. “And… he’s contacting you because he doesn’t feel comfortable with talking to ‘some quack.’ He wants you to find the facts.”

“Now that I can do, and at least there’s one thing we agree on.”

“So. Any thoughts?”

Sherlock was quiet for a long time, lacing his fingers together over his chest and settling back into the cushions. “…I think he needs a friend.”

John blinked.

_What now?_

“Well… say he did get one, and it didn’t help enough. What then?”

“That would help. Why do you think it wouldn’t? Am I really _that_ bad of an example companion?”

“Um… I’m just going to pretend you didn’t say that. Just, for the sake of a hypothesis, say that didn’t work. What would you have him do then?”

“Hmm…” Sherlock lapsed back into thoughtful silence. “He could get a hobby. Something worthwhile.”

“He’s got one.”

“Oh?”

“…Puzzle. He likes to solve puzzles.”

The detective looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. “Puzzles? Hardly useful.”

“Trust me, it is. It’s pretty damn useful, and he’s incredibly good at it, too.”

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t see your reasoning. Besides, I’d probably be better at it than he is. You know I would be.”

John almost found it hard to contain a chuckle at the idea that Sherlock might just be a bit jealous of himself, and he didn’t even know it.

He’d have to save the chuckles for later, when everything didn’t count on his acting job, which was probably already shoddy at best.

But it did seem to be working.

 

 


	41. Thinking

_John was woken by the sweetly painful, measured harmony of the violin drifting up to him through the floorboards._

He opened his eyes to near complete darkness, but he was instinctively aware of the room around him. It was still nighttime—probably sometime around early morning.

Much too early for Sherlock to be playing his violin.

He lay there for several minutes, just listening to the sound of cheerful melancholy in the dark.

John finally groaned and sat up, dragging himself out of bed and padding out into the hall and down the steps. The lights were almost all off in the living room, save for one reading lamp that cast the room in a dim jumble of warm electric glow, angular shadows, and cool moonlight.

Sherlock stood by the window, silhouetted against the glass with his violin tucked under his chin. He didn't stop playing as John came in, but turned toward him just slightly as if to indicate that he was aware of his presence.

John cleared his throat. "Sherlock? It's late. What the hell are you doing?"

Only after the closing notes had slid off the strings of his violin and faded into the night did Sherlock finally decide to reply. "I'm thinking. Composing helps me think."

"Can't you think another time? Maybe, you know, _when the sun is up?_ "

“I’ve been thinking about what to do for our dear Mr. Anonymous.” Sherlock spoke as if he’d decided not to hear him. “I’ve come up with quite a few ideas, almost none of which would work for him, because he’s just so unusual.”

“O…oh? Like what?”

Sherlock turned and rested the violin on the table, casually cleaning the bow and taking his sweet time in answering. “I thought perhaps if he were kinder, people might like him more. But of course, the problem with that is that he can’t be. I don’t suppose he knows how. And anyway, he doesn’t need people to like him because he’s so self-sufficient. Or at least, that’s what he thinks. I wonder if he’s beginning to doubt that, too.”

“…Sherlock?”

“He probably holds a lot of resentment for the treatment he received in his youth. Perhaps if he could just figure out how to delete those memories, he could go on with his life. But then, he wouldn’t have much memory left, would he?” Sherlock scoffed carelessly and laid the bow next to the violin, turning back to John. “It would free up a lot of hard drive space, though.”

“What are you—“

“What am I getting at? What does it sound like? I’m explaining the possible solutions to his problem. I don’t suppose you’ve found any more information on him? No, you haven’t, and that’s fine because I don’t need it. I already know that he’s desperate, ineffective, damaged beyond repair, obviously heartless, and pathetically hollow.”

“No he’s not! Sherlock—he’s just—it’s just that—“

Sherlock tilted his head. “Just that what? Is there something you’d like to add to your story? Perhaps something about how innocent and victimized he is? Because that would be rubbish, and you and I both know that. Don’t push the envelope, Mr. Anonymous.”

John opened his mouth, but no words came out, so he shut it again. Sherlock’s steady gaze was on him, and he found he didn’t know where to look.

“You… er… you figured it out…? That I’d…”

He rolled his eyes, taking a seat in the armchair. “’Figured out’ implies that there was a point at which I didn’t know.”

“Oh. Oh… so you… um… But you… I mean… you didn’t…”

“I didn’t say anything? Didn’t let on that I knew? No, of course not. Much too interesting, getting an unbiased opinion. Although… I can’t say I’m not surprised by what I found. Still, I stand by what I said then. It’s cold fact, and that’s the way the world works.”

John swallowed. “You mean… about how… ‘he’ doesn’t matter?”

“Mm hmm. Do you have any idea how big the universe is, John?”

“No, but I don’t think you do, either.”

“True. But my point is that in such a vast vacuum of human life, just one person really doesn’t make any measurable difference at all. Doting mothers might tell their children that everyone’s important, that everyone can change the world—“ He shook his head in irritation. “But that sort of heroism doesn’t exist in the real world. And even if it did, I wouldn’t be capable of it.”

“Sherlock… listen. When we first met, I was going to a therapist twice a week, and I walked with a cane. Then I moved in here, and… well, I don’t do either of those things anymore.”

“Yes? You’re addicted to the adrenaline rush that comes with the game. If it wasn’t me and cases, it might be police work or, hell, even sky diving. You’d find a way.”

“No. _No, you git._ That’s not what I’m getting at, and no I wouldn’t ‘find a way,’ because that’s not the only thing that saved me. I’m not just here because it’s exciting.”

Sherlock frowned, slightly puzzled. “No?”

“ _Hell, it’s too early for this…_ ” He took a deep breath. “No. I’m still here because you’re my best friend, honestly, and I know you need me. And that’s alright, because… maybe I need you, too. You helped me get my life back to normal— _well, ‘normal’_ —and I don’t think I could have done that otherwise. So if you’re saying that you’re not important, or that you don’t make a difference, then you’re also saying that any difference you’ve made for me doesn’t matter. Is that what you mean?”

The detective was quiet for a long time, and John could feel his eyes on him from the shadows.

“…No. It’s not.”

“Even if heroes don’t exist, you’re still the closest to one I’ve found, personally.”

“I… what?”

“And I know I’m not much of one, but if I can make any difference for you, too, then that would be great. You’re my friend. That’s what friends do.”

After a long moment of silence, Sherlock spoke carefully. “You have. More than I ever could.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	42. When he can't see you

Ten simple words had been haunting Sherlock Holmes ever since the Hansel and Gretel case.

Ten unexpected words, from a very unexpected source.

He shut his eyes and leaned back into the sofa cushions, resting the tips of his fingers against his lips in deep thought.

Was he really _that_ distant?

And at the same time... _That obvious?_

A slight frown shadowed his face as the thought crossed his mind, but John, typing away on his laptop across the room, didn't notice.

Back then—a week ago—Molly had looked him in the eye and said it, completely out of the blue, completely unforeseen.

_"You look sad, when you think he can't see you."_

It had caught Sherlock off guard, and for once his brilliant brain failed to give him an adequately witty reply, and he had just stood there in front of the microscope, staring at her like a deer in the headlights.

She had gone on, still looking at him. "Are you okay? And... don't just say you are, because I know what that means... Looking sad when you think no one can see you."

At last his self-preserving presence of mind had caught up, and he tilted his head slightly. " _You_ can see me."

_Perhaps that might convince her she was imagining it, or at least..._

"I don't count."

Sherlock had just continued to stare at her, caught off guard yet again and completely at a loss as to what on earth to say.

"What I'm trying to say is that... If there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me. _No,_ I just mean...” Molly had obviously been kicking herself mentally, but Sherlock was too preoccupied trying to process all this to really notice. “I mean... If there's anything you need... it's fine."

"But what can I need from you?"

_What can you do that John hasn’t already tried?_

She had taken a breath and seemed to back off slightly. "Nothing. I don't know. You could… probably say thank you, actually."

_Was that what one was supposed to do in that instance?_

_Was that expected?_

_Why?_

_He hadn’t asked her for help._

"…Thank you."

"I'm just… going to go and get some crisps, do you want anything?” Molly had brushed past him, trying to be casual again but failing miserably. “It's okay, I know you don't."

"Well actually, maybe I—"

"I know you don't." With that, she had turned and walked out the doors, leaving him standing there blinking in confusion.

_Maybe I do need help._

Sherlock was roused from his reverie by John's sudden exclamation of "Oh Jesus..." as he stared at his glowing laptop screen.

The detective raised his head and glanced over at him with mild curiosity. "Hmm?"

John took a moment to respond, shaking his head cynically and letting out a big breath. “This isn’t going to end well, Sherlock. All this media attention you’ve got. The press will turn—they _always_ turn—and they’re going to turn on _you._ ”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t just say that!” He shut the laptop and glared at him. “I don’t want them spreading any sort of nasty rumors, or… I don’t know… _something._ ”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow quizzically. “I don’t understand. Why does it bother _you_ so much? What they think of me?”

John just stared at him for several moments, with a look that certainly read ‘are you kidding me?’ but Sherlock couldn’t fathom what for.

He’d just asked a simple question.

Which apparently wasn’t going to be justified with an answer.

_Just how the hell was he supposed to make sense of things if people didn’t bloody answer him?_

 


	43. Unbelievable

John shifted in his seat again, glancing over at the detective beside him.

They’d been called in to the Yard for a follow-up on the Hansel and Gretel case, but it seemed Lestrade was just a little bit busy, and honestly John was surprised Sherlock had been this patient so far.

A dull fifteen minutes later Donovan came bustling through the waiting room, on her way to drop off some papers in Lestrade’s office. She paused at the sight of them, hand on her hip. “Oh, you’re back again, are you? Last case not dismal enough for you, huh, Mr. Depressing?”

Sherlock only rolled his eyes. "I'm not depressing, I'm realistic."

“ _Hey,_ ” John gave her a pointed look, leaning forward. “If you don’t have anything nice to say, maybe you should just piss off.”

“I do, I do. I actually just wanted to say that was really amazing, what you did. Finding those kids. Really _unbelievable,_ actually.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and the glare he gave her was nothing if not cold as ice.

“Sally…” John began warningly, but she only shook her head.

“Everyone’s been talking about it. The whole thing was incredible. But I’m sure you knew that, right? Of course you did. That’s exactly what you wanted.”

John stood up, back straight, as imposing as he could be in spite of his stature. “Just what the _hell_ do you think you’re talking about? You don’t know _anything_ about this. _Leave us alone._ ”

Donovan shrugged, and turned to go. “We’ll see, I guess. You know I was right, all along.”

The ex army doctor probably would have gone after her had Sherlock not grabbed his wrist and held him there until the door had closed behind her. He seemed composed as ever, but there was something about the calmness in his eyes that told John that inside that head of his the gears were turning.

“Sherlock… she was…”

“I know.”

“Do you think she was just saying that to get to you? She could have been. She does that.”

“Yes, I know that, too.” Sherlock still hadn’t let go of his wrist, and now he suddenly got to his feet, pulling him with him out into the hall.

“Hey—where are we going? I thought we were waiting for—“

"John, I need to tell you something." Sherlock stopped and turned back to him, his voice low.

"Huh? What?" John looked up at him questioningly. "Tell me what?"

Sherlock took only a split second or so to compose himself before he continued. "Remember when I said I was fine?"

"But... Not okay?"

"I'm not okay. And... I'm not fine, either."

John was beginning to look more and more concerned now. "What do you need? God, you haven’t started to… have you…?” He gulped and glanced at Sherlock’s arms, but the detective shook his head quickly. “What can I do? I want to help."

"Just... Do exactly as I say, please."

"What does that mean? Sherlock?"

"I'll tell you later."

"But—I—" John's gaze was confused, searching for but finding no answers in the detective's face. "How do I help?"

"Just stay with me. That's all I ask. And, one more thing."

"Yes? Anything."

"John... _Thank you._ "

 

 

 


	44. He deserved that much

 

"Oh, John! You made me jump!" Mrs. Hudson cooed as he came rushing in the front door. "Is everything alright now, with the police? Has Sherlock sorted it all out?"

He stopped dead, staring at her with wide eyes.

She was obviously fine.

Not dying from a gunshot wound, like he'd been told over the phone just shortly before, when he'd left Sherlock alone at the hospital to come see her...

Sherlock alone.

" _Oh my god..._ " John breathed in disbelief, worry starting to chill his blood all over again.

Without another word he wheeled around and went tearing out to the street, commandeering a taxi and repeating a steady stream of " _No, no, no—_ " under his breath.

It had all happened so fast.

But now the events of the past week came crashing back over his head—the doubts, the rumours, and the subsequent arrest of Sherlock Holmes on suspicion of fraud, before they had escaped.

And now...

It was all Moriarty's fault.

It had to be.

Jim Moriarty must be Satan himself, if he could take a man's life and twist it like that—break it, turn it all against him in a massive tempest of lies and accusations.

One big lie, with just enough truth to make it easy to swallow.

That's how Satan did it.

That's how he killed the angel helper.

++++++++

 

_In truth, you like the pain._

_You like it because you think you deserve it._

 

++++++++++++

 

And now the whole world believed Moriarty was just an actor, hired by Sherlock Holmes to portray the villain and make him look good. _The whole world—_

They all thought Sherlock had kidnapped those children.

They thought he had stolen all those paintings.

They thought he was the one who’d had bombs strapped to people in public places.

Hell, they probably thought he was the one who had forced people to choose between two identical pills, too—

And not one bit of it was true.

Sherlock was the innocent.

_John knew that._

He was, actually, probably the most innocent person he’d ever met, despite his attitude.

There were so many things Sherlock Holmes just didn’t know. And perhaps he never would. They say that what you don’t know won’t hurt you—but it can’t help you, either.

Maybe Sherlock needed that.

But at this rate there was no way John could get him to understand.

 

++++++++

 

_I wish to not have feelings._

_I wish to be a machine._

 

+++++++++

 

And to think, Moriarty’s source for information on Sherlock was none other than _his own brother_ —Mycroft Holmes.

He’d provided the most dangerous criminal mind in London with exactly what he needed.

Moriarty had a bone to pick with Sherlock.

And Mycroft had given him the _perfect_ ammunition.

And John had left him alone.

Again.

 

+++++++++++

 

_Alone is what I have._

_Alone protects me._

 

++++++++++

 

Maybe if John had tried harder—maybe if he’d spoken up earlier—but what could he have said?

He’d already tried so damn hard…

He’d been there all along, _trying…_

And still, the whole world had fallen apart about their heads, and there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do for his best friend because everything had spiralled out of control and now not only was it like he couldn’t reach him, but everyone else was out to get him, too.

Not just himself anymore.

 

++++++++++++

 

_I am told not to be myself._

_Am I really that much of a freak?_

 

++++++++++++

Moriarty did exist.

_He did._

Jim Moriarty truly was the real, good-old-fashioned villain of their little fairytale.

And John would make sure that the whole fucking world knew that.

It didn’t matter how long it took.

It didn’t matter who he had to shoot.

Sherlock’s name _would_ be cleared.

_It had to be._

He deserved that much.

 

++++++++++++

 

_I feel as if I should apologize._

_I'm sorry._

_For disappointing you the way I must have, the way you complained all the time._

_I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promises. When I said I wouldn't cut again. I didn't mean to slip up, but things happened._

_I guess that's why you stopped trying after a while._

_I’m sorry I couldn’t be normal for you._

_I'm sorry I was heartless, and ignorant, and a soulless machine... I'm just trying to be perfect._

_That's what I'm supposed to be, right?_

_But there was no way._

_But I tried._

_Trying doesn't count, though._

 

+++++++++

Almost as soon as the taxi had pulled up in front of Saint Bart’s hospital, his mobile started ringing.

John was almost in too much of a hurry to pick up as he got out, but _just in case it might be important…_ “Hello?”

“John.”

“Sherlock.” He didn’t stop walking. “Are you okay?”

“Turn around and walk the way you came.”

“No, I’m coming in.”

“Just… Do as I ask. Please.”

_That sounded a bit familiar…_

“Where?”

“Stop there. Okay, look up. I’m on the rooftop. I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this.”

John looked up with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach at the sight of the detective, high up above him on the windy rooftop. “What’s going on?”

“An apology. It’s all true.”

**_No, no, no._ **

_Not happening._

_This must be a dream._

_Another nightmare._

_Another excess of scarlet._

_He’d wake up._

“What?”

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”

“Why are you saying this?” That sinking feeling was twisting itself into a tight knot of horror, made all the worse by the sheer confusion he felt himself drowning in.

_This was so wrong._

“ _I’m a fake._ ”

“Sherlock…”

“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

_But if this was a dream, why was Sherlock saying these things?_

_Nothing like that had ever happened before._

“Okay, shut up. Sherlock. _Shut up._ The first time we met— _the first time we met_ —you knew all about my sister, right?”

“Nobody could be that clever.”

“ _You could._ ”

++++++++++++

 

_So tell me, how does it feel to know you get to me like no one ever has before?_

 

+++++++++++

 

Sherlock almost managed a smile at that, despite it all. “I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you. It’s a trick. _It’s just a magic trick._ ”

"No. Alright, stop it _now._ "

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

John held up his hands in desperate surrender, feeling like he was about to run out of breath forever. "Alright."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me." Sherlock's words shook, and in that moment John imagined that the worst sound in the world must be the break in the voice of a person who's about to cry. "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

"This phone call... It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

John's heart stopped. His blood froze. His breath caught. He didn't want to believe this. He couldn't. _Not this time._

_If he just..._

"Leave a note when?"

 

" _Goodbye, John._ "


	45. Epilogue?

A dark cloud hung over John H. Watson, MD.

The cloud never left, never lightened.

It followed every move he made, and sometimes it was so dark he could no longer see.

It was at times like that when all he could do was sit still and shut his eyes tightly, and do his best to re-imagine that last, sweetly painful melody he'd heard the consulting detective draw out on the violin.

If only he'd known then.

What that meant.

How far he'd go...

John bit the inside of his cheek hard, and unconsciously held his breath.

He didn't like to think about that.

But he couldn't help it.

Sometimes he'd just be sitting there, trying to live, and then all of a sudden—in his mind's eye he'd see _him_ , leaning forward, falling, falling, and then—

It didn't do to dwell on the past.

But for John Hamish Watson, there was nothing else.

Upon cleaning out the flat a bit, John had come across a box that contained nothing but a razor blade, a scalpel, and a pin.

They had obviously been _his._ But whether or not _he_ had been using them up to... _that point,_ John could no longer know. The first thing he felt when he found the box was anger.

Pure, unchecked anger.

_Not good enough._

He had stared at the contents of that box for a very, very long time, fists clenched until his knuckles whitened—but at long last he shut the lid and put the box away where he'd found it.

He couldn't help but feel that it would be unfair to _him,_ somehow.

But he knew that thought wouldn't last long.

The world around him was dull: not grey, but faded and washed out. The one colour that stood out to him was red.

There was scarlet all around—and it made him sick.

Few people came to the disgraced detective's funeral, and John could feel only loathing for them.

They were here now—but where had they been when _he_ had needed them the most?

When _he_ had been hanging on by a thread, all alone...

It wasn't _fair._

They didn’t care. They didn’t give a shit that _his_ entire life had been nothing but shit, and they would never— _never_ —understand just how much that must have hurt.

How much that hurt now.

And it would probably never stop hurting.

But as angry as he was with all of it… he felt he must somehow deserve this. He had been unable to help _him._

He had failed his best friend.

_He must have._

Otherwise, _he_ wouldn’t have jumped…

 _He_ would still be here.

Languishing over there on the couch, letting his tea go cold, or shooting up the walls, or complaining, or playing his violin, or…

_It wouldn’t be so quiet._

John drew his feet up onto the armchair, wrapping his arms around his knees and hugging himself tightly. He couldn’t look at that empty couch anymore.

He didn’t want to be this alone anymore.

But right now, no one else would do. _No one except the one person he would never see again._

Why did it have to be like this?

How could _he_ do this to him?

How could _he_ leave him alone like this, and make him watch everything, too—made him worry for so long, and then—

There was nothing he could do.

John Hamish Watson must be the most useless person in the world.

The most useless friend ever.

He hadn’t been enough. Even though he’d tried so hard.

_He should have tried harder._

_Damn it._

When he finally opened his eyes and looked down his gaze fell on the old Union Jack pillow, lying at the foot of his chair. After a long minute of staring at it, he reached down and picked it up, holding it tightly.

It was so kitschy and patriotic... Certainly not something _he_ would have ever bought for himself.

So...

John's throat seemed to close up as he finally realised whom that pillow had been meant for.

_It had been for him._

A little welcome gift, for a homecoming soldier...

He brought it close and buried his face in it, ignoring the dust, and hugged it as tightly as he possibly could. An hour later there were tearstains on the fabric, but that was alright.

A lot of things had tearstains on them, these days.

He stared down at it, trying to get his breathing under control again.

" _Sherlock..._ "

A new burst of aching pain went coursing through him as the word left his lips, another twist of the knife...

It had been over three months since he'd been able to say _his_ name.

At that moment, John would have given _anything_ to make it all stop. To be able to rewind everything and try again.

But that was impossible.

He dragged himself up and padded across the room, still hugging the pillow to his chest. He sought out the place where he knew the box of blades was hidden...

_But where was it?_

He searched all over, but there was no sign of it anywhere in the flat. In fact, it seemed every sharp thing in 221B was missing, and his gun as well.

Strange...

 

+++++++++

 

For another five months or so John could barely force himself to leave the flat, except for the few times when he visited that black marble gravestone, which still seemed so foreign and cold.

It wasn’t his friend.

_It wasn’t Sherlock._

When at last even the flat itself was too dark and too suffocating to bear, he took one last look at the Union Jack and then, without saying a word to anyone, got to his feet and walked out.

He didn’t have a specific destination in mind.

He just walked.

It was cold out, but he didn’t mind. The outward bite of the wind was a thousand times better than the constant, inward gnawing he felt now.

After a long time he stopped and looked up, sensing that he’d arrived. Saint Bart’s hospital towered above him in the grey late winter afternoon, a dull reminder of all that bright scarlet.

Even though he had become mostly numb to everything, the sight of that spot on the pavement was painful.

The world was moving on.

Like all that had never happened.

Like no consulting detective had ever cried on his blogger’s shoulder, high out of his mind, or turned a blade on himself in a fit of loneliness…

But he had.

_And nobody cared._

John paused on the sidewalk for several minutes, looking up. Then he walked around the side of the building and found his way up the fire-escape, up and up until he’d reached the roof. It was windy and flat up there on top of the world, and something stirred inside him at the thought that this was where _he_ had spent his last minutes.

_What had gone through his mind?_

_What had he been feeling?_

Maybe it was a bit like this, now.

But it was too late.

_And it was all John’s fault._

He stepped up to the edge, looking down on the ignorant world full of people who didn’t care at all, and never would.

He didn’t like that world, now that it didn’t have _him_ in it to make it interesting.

John took a deep breath of bitter air and shut his eyes, letting the wind drive against him, pushing him back…

 _But no, he wanted to fall forward_ —

A hand reached out and took hold of the back of his shirt, yanking him back onto the roof.

He almost stumbled and fell on top of them, but found himself steadied, dragged away from the edge.

_No…_

**_No…_ **

 

 


	46. To have disappointed you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I did write more! A lot more, actually... It's all on FF.net, though. I didn't post it here because I didn't care for this site as much, but now I'm getting around to it. So here it is!

The hands on him hadn't loosened, as if afraid to let go of him. John half wanted to struggle against them, half wanted to just sit back and let himself be held—but in the end his instinct took over and he twisted around, trying to see who was holding him back so tightly.

_Something so familiar, and yet so foreign..._

Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed it. That head of dark curls, that piercing gaze, those cheekbones...

It felt as if his lungs had disappeared.  
The blood in his veins had become the arctic sea, freezing so quickly he couldn't move.

It couldn't be.

_There was no way._

It wasn't possible.

_He was dead._

**_Dead._ **

_Suicide._

_Gone forever._

Sherlock was the first to break the silence. "Don't. Please. It's not worth it. I realise you're confused, but you have to understand-"

" _You're alive_." John could only stare at him dumbly, uttering the only words he could think of.

"Yes, well, I... Wanted to tell you, really did, but there were... things. Long story short, not dead." He managed a smile. "But I really didn't want to have to do it like this. I never wanted you to go this far."

"You..." John took a deep breath, the ice chunks in his blood giving way to molten magma and a sharp swirl of confusion. " _YOU JUMPED OFF A BUILDING. I WATCHED YOU. I FELT FOR A PULSE, BUT THERE WAS JUST_ -"

"About that, I do feel bad for having to-"

" _I MOURNED FOR YOU! MY LIFE FELL APART! I HAD TO GO ON FUCKING MEDICATION BECAUSE OF YOU_!"

"I know-I can't sleep at night because-"

" _ **YOU LIED TO ME!**  YOU  **MADE ME THINK YOU WERE DEAD,**  AND YOU  **LET**  ME GRIEVE! YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THAT WAS LIKE!_"

"I suppose I should say something, but you really don't know-"

" _NO, THAT'S RIGHT! I DON'T KNOW! SO WHY DON'T YOU TELL ME WHY-RIGHT NOW! I WANT TO KNOW **WHY,**  SHERLOCK!_"

Sherlock was almost fidgeting now, clearly highly uncomfortable, but John was too worked up to appreciate it. "It was for your own good. Your honest reaction was vital for it all to be believable. I really couldn't risk telling you."

John had pushed himself back and straightened up, staring the detective in the eye and trying to keep his jaw set firmly. "My own good? I was going to  _die_  today."

"Yes, well... That  _was_  a bit of an overreaction on your part..."

In the span of less than three seconds the fury in John's blood boiled over, and he launched himself at the detective, tackling him in a fit of uncontrollable rage that blocked out all other thoughts in his mind and numbed him to the core, for the moment. They hit the rooftop with a heavy thud, Sherlock sprawled on his back and John very nearly kneeling on his chest with his hands around the detective's throat.

_John could hear the blood pounding in his ears._

_He wasn't going to let go._

Sherlock put up no resistance, though he certainly could have, and the lack of fight only served to make John madder.

_He wanted him to hit back._

_He wanted his anger to be justified._

_He wanted to let it all out._

_FUCK._

_FUCK SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE FUCKING HEARTLESS, COLD-BLOODED BASTARD—_

He happened to look down, and as fast as it had come on all his anger froze as he stopped and sat back quickly. "Oh god—Sherlock, you're—" John's eyes widened in horror as a dark red streak began to soak through the detective's shirt, just over his ribs.

"It... Em... Just re-opened an old cut. It's alright." Sherlock tried to sound reassuring through his chokes and gasps for breath, but the result was the exact opposite. "John, really. I'm fine."

" _Let me see_."

"Hardly necessary. Nn.." He hissed in through his teeth. "No. No, it's fine, really."

"Did you...? Was it because-"

" _No_." The detective shook his head quickly. "It wasn't me this time."

John's level of confusion was increasing by the second, and by this time he had begun to worry too. The red was spreading...

Without waiting for Sherlock's consent, he pushed him back onto the concrete and undid the first several buttons on his shirt with a doctor's practiced hands.  
" _Jesus..._ " John's brow furrowed in concern. "What war have you been through...?"

"An inner one for the most part, if you must know." Sherlock scowled at the perceived violation and struggled to get out from under John's hands and sit up. "But in all honesty..."

"You look like hell. What happened?" John couldn't help but glance again at the pattern of scars, scratches, and bruises that crosshatched the detective's chest and torso, some more recent than others.

"It's all in the past. It's not important. What matters is that I'm back now." Sherlock asserted staunchly, straightening his back and buttoning his shirt up again.

"Sherlock..."

"Work. It was work. I didn't do it-I know you're thinking that, but I didn't. Casework."

"Do... Do you promise?  _None_  of it?"

The detective paused on the last button. "...Is that what you want to hear?"

"Only if it's true."

"Then... no. I can't promise that. But like I said before, the majority is from work."

"All this time... You've been out there... Going on with your life,  _working,_  even, and you couldn't even bother to drop me a line. Nothing. Not one phone call. A text, even. It wouldn't have been that hard. Just a simple, 'hey, _by the way,_  I'm alive!' would have sufficed.  _anything_."

"I couldn't. Not yet. I was going to let you know, eventually, once I'd got everything sorted-"

" _I thought you were dead_!" John struggled to speak, let alone keep his voice steady, drawing in a deep breath.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you."

" _YOU KNOW THAT'S NOT_ —"

Sherlock held up a hand, shaking his head. "No, I meant... I _am._ Sorry. To... have let you down. I suppose. Disappointed you." He paused. "...Stop looking at me like that. It's not as if this is the very first time I've ever apologized in my life. I just haven't needed to before this. Except..."

John's eye's followed the detective's to the edge of the roof, and another burning question suddenly formed itself in his mind. "Was any of that real?  _Any of it_?"

"You mean, what I said? Aside from the obvious... yes. I meant everything I said. Even if it wasn't true."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I wasn't acting. I'm not  _completely_ dead inside, you know." Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed wryly.

John just stood there for a few seconds, collecting himself. "Don't joke about that. I've seen too much to laugh at it. You don't have to make light of it."

"Yes, I do have to. If I don't, who will?"

"But it's not a laughing matter, Sherlock."

He tilted his head. "You've giggled over crime scenes before. What's the difference?"

"...I shouldn't have done that. That was inappropriate. But the difference is... It's you. You still don't seem to realise this, but when I first came home, from Afghanistan, I... wasn't... in the best of shape. I had a limp, and I was having trouble adjusting to civilian society again. I hardly had anyone in London who I could go to, and even up until I ran into Mike Stanford again I really didn't know anyone. But then I met you. And, I'll admit, I hated you, too. Just, for all of the disgusting experiments, and because of how arrogant I thought you were, and because of how difficult it was to get through to you about important things... And I hated you because you were a dick to yourself. All the talk about your body being like a machine, and you didn't even hardly bother to take care of it. Drove me mad. Because I cared about you, and you didn't care about that. What was I supposed to do? But despite how you drove me crazy, you also kept me sane. And then you went and did something like...  _that._  Do you see, Sherlock? I'm not laughing because I care too much. And don't you dare laugh at me now."

"...I'm not laughing." He was quiet for another few seconds. "I  _am_  sorry, John."


	47. Distant

_John was distant now._

Sherlock hadn't expected this sort of reaction, and to be honest it was a little disconcerting. What he'd done had been completely necessary, in order to save John's life—so why was he so upset with him?

But Sherlock did feel  _something._

_Confusion._

_Regret._

_Sorry._

He hadn't been expecting John to mourn like that, to spend an entire year grieving over him, and then just give up. It had all caught him a bit off guard.

He had really thought John would move on after a while and find something else to do, and go on with his life.

_But he hadn't._

It was a hard equation for him to solve, but Sherlock was slowly beginning to realise that perhaps John was more dependant on him than he'd thought. He still didn't understand why, but knowing that and looking back on what he'd had to do... What that had done to John...

It hurt.

Somehow.

He couldn't quite describe it, even to himself, but he knew part of it was being sorry.

He was sorry he'd left him like that, and made him watch, and worry... He knew it had all been for John's own good, and there really hadn't been anything he could have done differently, but he still almost felt  _ashamed._

Which was completely wrong for him. It felt wrong, and uncomfortable, and he didn't like it and didn't know what to do about it.

Maybe that's why he'd let John choke him.

In a way it was payback.

He'd had it coming.

John deserved justice, and if Sherlock couldn't make it up to him, then he at least deserved to get a few good hits in.

Logically the doctor's hands around his throat should have been nothing compared to what he'd endured during the year he'd been gone, but somehow it was worse.

_Worse because he deserved it._

_Worse because that was his best, and only friend._

_Worse because it didn't hurt enough._

And now things were different.

Now that he was back Sherlock could sense a rift between them that hadn't been there before. A distance that John enforced, probably to protect himself, and also because he probably still held a grudge against Sherlock for what he'd put him through.

He hated that rift. It was hard to take, alienating and bewildering. And the most difficult thing was that he couldn't figure out how to close that gap. How to make it up to John. How to make himself acceptable again.

 _Would demonstrations of skill work?_ No... They hadn't worked before, when John had been angry with him, so why would they work now?

_John didn't care about his skill._

_Which was extremely vexing._

_And also strangely heartening._

But that didn't do him any good now, as he still had no clue what to do. If only people were as easy to figure out as crime scenes were. They were always so mercurial and illogical and unfamiliar and emotional... And to be completely honest, just vaguely scary.

Not the same sort of fear he'd felt when he thought he'd seen the hound of Baskerville.

Not real fear.

But something close to it.

It didn't stop him from being charming, or being loud, or rude, or clever, but it was always there in the back of his mind.

_A knowledge that they weren't like him._

_And that they wouldn't accept him._

But that was okay, because he didn't need them to. He'd always had his work to keep him company, and then he'd had John—but now John was distant, and Sherlock was finding it difficult to just go back to having the work.

It felt empty somehow.

_Emptier._

What the hell was he supposed to say?

What could he do that would make John accept him again?

Sure, they were speaking, and there wasn't any outright hostility—but things were just different.

Awkward.

Wrong.

_Distant._


	48. Tell me why

_Sherlock had been standing by the window for over two hours, now._

He did things like that sometimes when he was thinking, so John wasn't all that surprised. But he did wonder what the detective was thinking about.

_All he could do was wonder, these days._

John was overjoyed to discover that his best friend was still alive, of course—but he was also having a hard time coming to grips with what that meant.

That Sherlock had lied to him.

That he'd left him like that without so much as a text message.

That maybe John hadn't really gotten through to him as much as he thought he had.

Maybe John didn't matter to him as much as he'd hoped he did.

That was a hard thought to have, so he tried to ignore it, for the most part. And talking to Sherlock made that difficult. It almost felt as if he'd had to step back and take a fresh look at the man he called his friend—to re-evaluate him and decide again how much he understood him. He knew he didn't dislike him. It was because he didn't that all this hurt so much.

Sherlock was still his friend.

He just didn't know if Sherlock really thought that way, too.

The detective finally turned his head away from the window and looked back at him; John could feel his gaze on him, like a black hole, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

" _What._ "

Sherlock didn't look away, and tipped his head to the side slightly. "I'm just thinking."

"Don't stare at me. It's basic manners."

"You know how deficient I am in that area." Sherlock shrugged and turned back to the glass, and John almost scoffed out-loud.

_Understatement of the century, there._

After a while John gave up and folded his newspaper in his lap, pursing his lips resignedly and looking up at the detective's back. "Are you ever going to tell me  _why?_ "

There was silence for a moment.

"...I did. I had to. It was for your own good."

This time John didn't bother to smother his sound of indignation. "Again with that garbage. You saw what was about to happen—what that drove me to. What you did was going to kill me."

He hadn't really been prepared for just how fast Sherlock's head would snap around to look at him, or how intense his eyes would be.

There was something in them that looked almost... hurt.

The detective stared at him in a silence that John supposed was meant to be expressive, but he missed its meaning.

Sherlock swallowed. " _What was I supposed to do...?_ If I didn't do it, you'd be killed. If I did, you'd kill yourself. At least I found you in time. I did what I had to do."

John found himself just sitting there, staring back at him, the forgotten newspaper still folded in his hands.

_Killed._

_So..._

"...You mean... It was because... You did all that to..."

"Save your life? Yes. Yours, and Mrs. Hudson's, and Lestrade's. I had no choice. But... I... do feel sorry, for some reason." He crossed his arms over his chest and turned his back on John, a gesture that seemed more of self-preservation than of hostility. "I shouldn't have to apologise. But I will. If only for peace of mind. I won't even blame you if you don't accept it, though logically I should. Your lack of understanding astounds me."

" _You git.._." John could feel Sherlock tense up in surprise at the hug, but he didn't stop or look up.

Right now, he just needed to remind himself that all this was real.

_That Sherlock was really alive._

_That it wasn't because he didn't care._

In fact, it was because Sherlock  _did_  care. No, it hadn't been easy, and no, this did not mean things were completely back to normal—but at least now he sort of knew why.

That was something.

After a minute Sherlock still hadn't really relaxed, and John let him go, straightening up and trying to figure out what to do from here. "Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Are you alright?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Don't do that." John gave him a look, trying to be imposing despite his stature.

"Do what?"

"You know what I mean.  _That._ "

"No, I don't." Sherlock was beginning to look more and more bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"Saying you're fine. Putting on a face. I've had enough of you lying to me. Okay? I can tell when something's off; I'm not as stupid as you think I am. So quit doing that. I don't even know why you think you have to do that—all I've ever tried to do was help you. It's pretty moronic, actually."

Sherlock's lips parted, but no sound came out. For a moment John thought he would have some stinging quip thrown back at him, but then the detective shut his mouth. He looked down at him, as close to stunned as the doctor had really ever seen him.

"...I have appearances to keep up."

"So it's your ego? I don't know... That seems a little superficial to me."

"No. A person can't be both strong and needy."


	49. With honey, please

"Something's wrong." John knew that must have been the fifth time he'd said that in the last two days, but it was still met by the same stoic shrug from the detective.

"No it isn't."

"I'm not stupid, Sherlock."

"That's news to me."

John sighed.

_Was it even worth pushing it, at this point...?_

Even after his long absence, John knew Sherlock fairly well, behaviour-wise. He could tell when something seemed off, even if Sherlock wouldn't admit it.

"I'm perfectly alright, believe me." Sherlock finally glanced up from his experiment at the kitchen table. "You're just not used to having me back."

"No, that's not it. I'm a little concerned. I  _am_  your doctor, after all."

Sherlock only shook his head and went back to whatever it was he was dissecting. "I don't need a doctor."

"Yeah, that's right. You need a fucking behavioural therapist."

"And a cup of tea, if you're getting up."

"Say please. We can start there."

Sherlock stopped and considered for a moment, a little to John's surprise. "With honey. Please."

"Well." John raised his eyebrows. "I'm a little shocked that actually worked."

"Don't push your luck. And add lemon, too."

* * *

The detective's mood seemed to be declining quickly. A whole day passed in which he didn't get up from the couch, though he still searched the blog ceaselessly for an interesting case to occupy his mind.

He didn't seem to be having any luck, however.

John couldn't exactly put his finger on what it was, but there was just something different about him.

_Something unfamiliar._

It probably shouldn't have been all that worrying, but with all things considered, and everything that had happened in the past two years, John couldn't force himself to drop it.

_Maybe he was just being paranoid._

And maybe it was his imagination, but Sherlock did seem slightly paler these days.

_More on edge?_

Could that be because he was still thinking about whomever it was that had targeted John? Or was it something much more shallow and expected?

_Perhaps he was bored?_

_Maybe._

* * *

"What's wrong?"

_No answer._

"You haven't spoken all day. I know something's up, Sherlock." When he still didn't get an answer from the detective John growled moodily under his breath and sighed. "This is  _ridiculous._  You're ridiculous. I'm sick of this, you know?"

"...Turn the AC back on."

"What?" John paused, tilting his head. "But it's nearly -6 degrees outside. There's no way I'm letting it get any colder in here."

"It's not cold." Sherlock got to his feet slowly and headed for his room, dragging his feet a bit. "You're the ridiculous one..."

John's instincts were kicking in, and his doctor's ears perked up.

_Could it be...?_

_But it never was..._

_Maybe..._

He stood and walked after him purposefully. "Sherlock, let me feel your forehead."

"What? No. I said I didn't need a doctor, and I don't. Leave me alone... I just want to sleep."

"You  _never_  want to sleep." John crossed his arms over his chest sternly. "Maybe I'd believe you more if your hands weren't shaking."

Sherlock only cast him a doleful, tired look over his shoulder and continued walking without another word.

"If you don't cooperate, then I can't help you."

"I don't need help."

" _You're a moron, Sherlock._ "


	50. Pulse point

"And where do you think you're going?" John looked up from his book as the detective's door finally opened and he emerged, fully dressed in his coat and scarf.

"Out. I have a case."

"Oh no you don't." He set the book down and stood up, blocking the door. "Case can wait, it's cold out there and you don't look well. You don't need to be over-exerting yourself."

Sherlock scowled moodily. "I'm fine. I'm tired of being cooped up in here, and I  _need_  this. My mind is scratching itself raw, John.  _I need a problem._ "

"You already  _have_ a problem. Listen, I don't want to have to deal with you being sick, so if we can avoid that I'd really like to."

"I'm not... sick."

"What was that?"

"Nothing." Sherlock frowned and pulled his gloves on. "Get out of the way."

" _Hell no._  You take that coat off and go back to bed,  _doctor's orders._  Understood?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed skeptically, and he didn't move for several minutes—but when he finally figured John wasn't going to step aside no matter what, he grudgingly pulled off his scarf and gloves, but he left the coat on.

_Maybe to spite him._

_Maybe to try to keep warm in the already cozy flat._

* * *

Two or three days passed, Sherlock grumbling the whole time and insisting that John let him out of the flat or,  _by god,_  he would  _break_  out.

But the doctor wasn't being lenient about this.

No check-up, no case.

That was it.

End of story.

Period.

_Done._

Of course, that didn't mean Sherlock was going to let him get anywhere near him, maintaining loudly that the whole thing was unnecessary, irritating, and senseless, in typical Sherlock fashion.

What wasn't so typical was how tired he looked despite his bad temper, or how listless and drained he was now. He talked a big game, as always, but he certainly didn't look it.

John decided the best he could do was keep him in the flat and hope he rested at least a little. He chalked it up to being a combination of nerves, over-working, and probably at least a cold.

He supposed the detective wasn't used to being sick, as he really hadn't ever caught anything in all the years he'd known him.

Nothing to do but wait it out and hope for the best.

One afternoon John was in the living room, trying to amuse himself by watching some old re-run on the telly. Sherlock had retreated to his bedroom to sulk a while ago, and John hoped he would sleep at least a little bit.

When at first he heard the  _thud_  he assumed it was part of the show, but his reason quickly kicked in and he looked up at the detective's bedroom door.

"Sherlock? Everything alright in there?"

He didn't get an answer, and his instincts as a doctor forced him to get up from his chair and walk over to the door. He called one more time, to be sure, and thought he heard a soft groan from inside.

The door squealed weakly on its hinges as he pushed it open.

"— _Sherlock?_ "

Sherlock was lying on the floor by the bed, collapsed in a heap. A barely audible whimper forced itself from his lips, and his eyes were half-lidded, clearly feverish and out-of-it.

His skin was warm to the touch, and he didn't have the strength or presence of mind to hold his head up when John rolled him over.

John could feel panic starting to rise in him.

_This wasn't supposed to happen._

_Colds didn't do this._

He brushed a damp curl out of the detective's face, trying to get some sort of reaction from him, but the only response he found was another drowsy groan.

"Sherlock, talk to me. Come on.  _Come on…_ Jesus…"

He kept a hand on the side of Sherlock's neck, just over his pulse point, as he pulled out his mobile and dialled quickly.

_Come on, pick up…_

**_Pick up…_ **


	51. Start caring

Sherlock slowly became aware that he was still there-that he still existed. The darkness was beginning to fade from the corners of his mind as he woke up, replaced by an overwhelmingly disconcerting sensation of numbness.

No doubt he had been pumped full of medication and painkillers.  
The relief they provided was extremely welcome, even if it meant he was now trapped in the exact place he hadn't wanted to be.

_A hospital._

_It must be..._

He opened his eyes, blinking up at the fluorescent glare of the lights overhead. The fact that he couldn't manage to sit up and force himself to move, no matter how much he wanted to deny it, made him feel horribly helpless and pathetic, and completely disgusted with his useless human body for being so damn weak.

_No..._

_He had to be able to beat this, to overcome it. He had to. He could._

_But he couldn't..._

"Sherlock?"

He turned his head as much as he could and glanced over at the source of the voice: John.  
A quick survey told him that John hadn't slept, hadn't been home since he brought him in, judging by the state of his clothes, and was obviously in a mood of general displeasure, to say the least.

_Oops._

Sherlock opened his mouth, testing his voice, and found it to be useable, if a little raspy.  
"I'm okay."

"No, you're _fucking not!_  Damn it, Sherlock-just-" John pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. "Why the _fuck.._."

"I could take care of it..."

"Obviously, you  _couldn't._  You didn't tell me about your back. I knew about the wounds on your torso, but... You didn't tell me. You even let me slam you on the pavement,  _on your back._  What the _actual hell,_  Sherlock?"

Sherlock left the question hanging in silence, unable to find a suitable answer.

_He couldn't tell him it was because he deserved it._

_That it was because he had to make sure everyone saw him as strong and emotionless, so they wouldn't leave him._

_That would sound too childish._

"I don't even have to know how the hell you got beat up so badly-but why wouldn't you tell me, so I could help you? The cuts needed care, Sherlock. You couldn't reach them. And now they're infected. It's made you sick. You are an _idiot_ -"

"I know." Sherlock ignored the stunned look on John's face.

_Anything to make him stop scolding._

_He didn't need that._

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, forgive me, thank you, etc."

" _Jesus_ -" John seemed to be having trouble keeping his jaw set and his expression controlled. "You really don't care, do you? You don't give a shit. You don't care about yourself, or me, or anyone else-you just-"

Sherlock frowned. "I do care about you... I couldn't function without my blogger."

" _Bloody hell_..."

_What was that for?_

_Shouldn't he be pleased with what Sherlock had just said?_

_Flattered, even?_

John took a deep breath. "I can't stand for this much more. I can't... live with you being such an arse. To yourself.  _I just can't._  You need to start bloody caring, because I can't do it for both of us. Okay? I'm not super-human. Take some fucking care of yourself for once, because I can't do it all!"

Sherlock's full attention caught on the one underlying message John  _must_  be trying to get across, and a little twinge of cold panic ran through his veins. "I'm okay-I can do this-just... stay..."

_Why the hell had he let that sound so damn pathetic?_

John paused, and the look on his face was maddeningly concerned and caring.

_Fuck._

"Of course I'm not leaving. I promised I wouldn't. Are you... worried about that?"

"No. Of course I'm not. I was just saying-"

"It's okay if you are , Sherlock."

He was quiet for a moment, considering. "No, it's not okay.  _It's not_."


	52. A little bit of a lot

How on earth had Sherlock dealt with the pain?

_Why on earth had he?_

John couldn't even begin to fathom.

It was all a great mystery he couldn't solve, and the detective refused to solve it for him.

_So much for consulting._

John sighed heavily, staring out the window in the hospital hallway. There wasn't all that much to see beyond the glass, just grey sky and grey street—but then, he wasn't really focussing on any of that anyway.

He had left Sherlock's room a while ago, on the pretence of fetching a cup of coffee. Truly, though, he had just needed to get away for a bit, to think and to try to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do next.

He couldn't take this anymore.

He couldn't stand to watch his best friend kill himself over and over, in so many different ways.

Maybe…

Maybe it would have been easier if the last time had been real. If the pavement really had been the end. At least then there would be only one sort of pain.

_No._

John shook his head firmly, trying to shake the thought out of his mind.

He didn't want that.

_Hell no._

Sherlock Holmes deserved to live, even if he didn't think so or even want to, even if he made life for John a hell at times.

It wouldn't have been easier, anyway. There would have been no one there to pull him back from that edge, to save him yet again and to tell him that it was okay.

That, at least, was a reassuring habit of Sherlock's. To say that everything would be alright, even if it wasn't, and to give the impression of unbreakable confidence in the face of problems John was sure must be much more daunting than he let on. That helped.

It made things seem more doable.

_More possible._

_Less scary._

But all that fell apart when a problem really was too much. When Sherlock broke, that's when things became terrifying. It meant there was no certainty left in the world, anywhere. No more safety.

_If Sherlock fucking Holmes didn't know what to do, who the hell would?_

_Damn it all…_

It had only been about three months since John's last visit with his therapist. He had stopped going again after Sherlock came back, thinking naively that everything would just get easier again. But it didn't.  _It had gotten worse._

Now, as he gazed out the window quietly, staring his reflection in the eyes and reflecting on how all this made him feel… he was starting to think that maybe he ought not to have stopped going.

Perhaps this would actually be a pretty good time, all things considered. He could really do with getting a few things off his chest. And it wasn't as if his therapist didn't already know every single detail of his struggles with Sherlock, even from back before the fall.

Since he'd thought his friend was dead and gone he'd felt as if he could finally open up and spill all those secrets he'd been carrying for him, without worrying about Sherlock caring if someone knew.

So there was really no harm in going back to her now.

Sherlock needed to be resting now, anyway, so that gave John some time to kill. He could slip out and be back by the time the detective woke up, and he'd never know the difference.

It just better help.

* * *

As soon as John walked back into the hospital room Sherlock cast him a quick glance and then lay back on the pillows indifferently.

"Did you ask her about me? Or was this visit just about you?"

John blinked. "I don't... know what you're talking about."

The attempt at deceit was feeble, and he knew it. But he still tried.

"Oh, come  _on..._ " Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically. " _Don't even bother._ I know you visited your therapist,  _obviously,_  so can we get on with it already?"

"How can you—"

"Your right trouser leg is creased. You always rub your right knee when you talk to her, I assume because of an old habit you formed when you had a psychosomatic limp. Plus, you smell like her office. Simple.  _Now my question._ "

"I…" John stood there, suddenly feeling very exposed and very aware of every little movement he was making. "It was… mostly about me."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and continued giving him 'the look.'

"Me… in relation to you. …Okay. Yeah. You were involved in the conversation. I talked about all this. A little bit."

The detective lay back and shut his eyes, either feigning lack of interest or genuinely resting—John wasn't sure. "Is that  _'a little bit'_ as in  _'a lot,'_ or  _'a little bit'_  as in  _'the entire conversation?'_ "

"…Somewhere in the middle, probably."

"Hmm…"

John almost found himself fidgeting, unsure whether to take Sherlock's quietness for displeasure or… something else.

_Who knew?_

You never can tell with consulting detectives.


	53. Bloody idiot

The monotonous drum of the rain outside had long since lulled John to sleep in his chair.

Sherlock lay awake, watching the little blue light on one of the machines blinking on and off in the near darkness. It was cool out, but he had somehow convinced John to open the window a crack, complaining that the atmosphere in the hospital room was far too oppressive.

He was expecting the night nurse any time now, though he wasn't looking forward to her arrival.

_Irritating beyond belief..._

Just being here was humiliating. To be weak and feeble and pathetic, and fawned over uselessly by a bunch of doctors... It made him want to  _die._

_Not literally, of course, but..._

How could he have failed so incredibly at the most simple of duties: keeping himself stoic? Taking care of himself, so other people didn't think they had to?

Lying in a hospital bed, he was nothing more than a burden. He couldn't solve anything with an IV in his arm, and it certainly wasn't doing any good for his reputation. John would call him shallow.

_But that reputation was all he had._

Not that he cared what people thought of him in the same way John probably thought he did, but... just... in order to be more acceptable to others in the long run—in order to be needed—he had to be strong enough for himself.

Nobody wants a high-maintenance bastard. _Nobody wants damaged goods._

And now he was all of the above, and more. All because of some stupid injuries on his back.

_Damn it..._

He glanced over at the morphine drip, watching it slowly feeding into his veins and numbing that dull ache on his back.

_He didn't need that._

_He didn't deserve that._

_He was strong enough to do without._

_At least that strong._

**_At least._ **

* * *

When John finally blinked awake he found that his neck was uncomfortably stiff. He groaned, massaging it and looking about the room.

The sun was up, probably around 8 or nine o'clock in the morning.

He got to his feet and stretched, trying to work some of the soreness out of his shoulders and legs. Sherlock appeared to be asleep, but he couldn't be sure.

_Typical consulting detective._

"…Hm?" John's brow furrowed as he finally caught sight of the levels on the morphine drip.

_Turned all the way down to zero._

_Why?_

_Who could have done that, and how long had it been off? All night?_

He stepped over and carefully pushed it back up to an acceptable level, glancing at the unresponsive detective on the bed.

_There._

_That ought to be better._

_Hurt a bit less now._

He was sure none of the nurses would have done that. So… John pursed his lips and shook his head.

_Sherlock…_

* * *

**_[2 June 2011, www. JohnWatson'sblog .com]_ **

**_Just an update_ **

_I know it's been ages since I last posted anything, but I've been a little… preoccupied. And I know that this blog is really just about the cases, but we haven't really had one in the last few months or so. But I felt bad about just leaving it alone, so I've decided I might as well give you all a little update, at least._

_It's possible you've all heard that the Great Sherlock Holmes was hospitalised. Could have been because of a case, maybe not—I don't know for sure. But what I do know is that he is a **bloody idiot.**  I'm not going to say anything more there._

_Anyway… we're home, now. Sherlock's playing his violin and sulking by the window, as usual. I think he's composing. Sounds alright, if a little dark. **Again, bloody idiot.**_

_Sometimes I'm just really surprised by everything he doesn't understand. For how clever he is, he can be spectacularly ignorant, too. And not just because he doesn't know a damn thing about the solar system, either. I don't know if he really understands the concept of friends. What that means. I'm not going to go into specifics, since this blog is public, but he's completely clueless._

_It kind of makes me sad, sometimes._

_Oh well..._

_Oh, he's stopped playing now. He wanted to see what I was typing. **Twat…**  He can wait until I post this, at least. I'm probably going to get a lot of grief for all that stuff I said before. Maybe I should go back and edit that out…_

_Nah. It needed to be said._

_Sherlock's healing. Slowly, but he's getting there. For all the time he spends complaining about how bored he is, or how stupid everyone else is, or how useless the Yard can be, he really doesn't say very much about the physical pain. I'm a doctor; I can guess what that stuff feels like. But I actually have to remind him to take his painkillers sometimes. Can you imagine that? It's odd, really. Complaining is half of what he does, on a good day. Why is that different?_

_Sorry, didn't mean to go off on a tangent there. Probably going to get even more grief from him for that._

_On a different note: just so you all know, if you haven't already guessed, we're probably not going to be doing all that many cases for a little while. At least not until Sherlock's fully healed. I'm going to have to put my foot down on this one; as a doctor, I can't have him running about London like that, catching a cold that would more than likely leave him flattened._

_His immune system is shite at the moment, thanks to that infection._

**_Bloody idiot._ **

_Until next time,_

_John W._

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**Comments on this post:**

_What's wrong with Sherlock? – **Kittylover411**_

_John, take this down immediately. – **SherlockHolmes**_

_No. It's my blog. – **JohnHW**_

_Bastard. This is slander. – **SherlockHolmes**_

_Yeah, a little bit. I'm sorry. But half of it's true and you know it. – **JohnHW**_

_Then take half of it down. – **SherlockHolmes**_

_No. – **JohnHW**_

_Fine, then. I'll do it myself. – **SherlockHolmes**_

_Sherlock, NO. – **JohnHW**_


	54. Obviously busy

John heard him before he saw him.

He could tell by his footsteps that he was in a poor mood, stomping up the stairs. A moment later the door opened and Sherlock came in, pulling off his scarf and tossing it aside.

John lowered his paper and glanced up at him. "Nice walk?"

"Oh,  _go to hell._ "

He raised an eyebrow. "Is this about the blog post?"

"No, of course not—it's about that  _other_ insensitive thing you did recently!"

"Look... I'm sorry." John folded the paper and set it on the table. "I didn't mean it to be insensitive."

The detective flopped down on the sofa, assuming that familiar look of stone-cold scepticism. " _Oh,_  I see, now. You meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a  _nice way!_ "

John couldn't help but sigh out-loud. "I'll take that bit out, if you're so pissed off about it. But you do need to start accepting the truth."

"Humph."

"Fine," John rolled his eyes. "Go ahead, turn your back on me. See if that helps."

The detective's voice was slightly muffled in the sofa cushions, now. "Actually I feel better already, now that I can't see you. Out of sight, out of mind."

_Fabulous._

* * *

After a while John had made the decision to go back to working at the clinic again. He had quit, after Sherlock's  _'suicide,'_  but now he was finding that just sitting about the flat all day was dull beyond belief, and he would do  _anything_  to escape the monotony. Even if that just meant replacing it with a different monotony.

_A better one._

It seemed to be going alright, so far. He'd treated a few sprains, several allergic reactions, and more cases of the sniffles than he cared to count in the span of two weeks.

Every morning he got up and biked to work— _exercise was good for a soldier_ —and every afternoon he would ride back to the flat, tired but fairly satisfied.

The days were getting unseasonably colder, and even rainier—if that was possible.  _Perhaps cabs would actually be a better form of transport…_

One afternoon found him pulling up in front of 221B, beginning to shiver in the chill. There had been thunderstorms the night before, and glassy pools of cold, dingy water still stood stagnant in every little rut and pothole in the concrete. He pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders and mounted the steps, searching his pockets for his key.

When he finally found it and unlocked the door he slipped inside hurriedly, rubbing his numb cheeks with the heels of his hands in an attempt to warm them up.

_Bad idea. That just hurt._

John shed his jacket and hung it up on the coat rack, right next to— _no, wait._   _Where was Sherlock's coat?_

Had he gone on a walk, maybe?

_Too cold…_

He wasn't supposed to be going anywhere without John's go-ahead, at least not until he was fully healed.

_So where was he…?_

"Sherlock?" John climbed the steps warily, raising his voice, his cold cheeks momentarily forgotten.

There was no answering voice from the lifeless flat, and he felt a little prickle crawling up his spine.

_This wasn't right._

_Something was off._

_He could tell._

A quick search confirmed that every room was one hundred percent empty of consulting detective.

_But…_

"God-dammit…" John fumbled for his mobile and quickly dialled Sherlock's number. He stood there for several minutes, listening to the ringing and hoping against hope that he would pick up.

**_Beep._ **

_'Sherlock Holmes. Obviously busy; leave a message after the tone. Or not. I probably won't check it.'_

"Fucking hell, Sherlock…  _You're not fucking doing this to me again…_ "

After one more failed attempt to reach him, John gave up hurried down the steps to ask Mrs. Hudson if Sherlock had said anything to her about going anywhere.

_Of course he hadn't._

_He never said anything to anybody._

**_Twat._ **

After a moment of consideration he walked swiftly back to the front landing, where he snatched up his jacket—and was just pulling it back on when the door opened.

_The worry knotting itself in John's stomach slowly began to transform into an angry, seething monster._

"Oh." Sherlock blinked at him in mild surprise. "Work alright? How many times did you get sneezed on today?"

" _You… absolute… **bastard…**_ " John's hands clenched into fists, and he just stood there glaring at him, back ramrod straight and his jaw set in a hard line. "Where the  _hell_  did you sneak off to? Do you have  _any_  idea what I was thinking? You're not supposed to leave the flat like that. Do you hear what I'm saying?  _Not supposed to leave._  That means  _you don't go anywhere!_ Understand?!"

Sherlock frowned slightly. "I had to leave. I had important business to attend to."

"Oh really?! What the  _hell_  kind of business was so important that you had to sneak off while I was at work, without telling  _anyone_  where you where going?! Huh?!  _You're still at risk!_ "

"Oh  _please…_ " Sherlock rolled his eyes with desperate sarcasm, and turned his head as Mrs. Hudson's door opened and she peered out at the two of them, wiping her hands on a dishcloth.

"I heard shouting. Are you boys alright down here?"

"We're  _better than alright,_  Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock turned to her with a flourish, taking her by the shoulders and bending his curly head to give her a little peck on the cheek. "Don't worry about a  _thing._ "

"Oh…" Mrs. Hudson giggled. "Somebody's in a good mood…"

Sherlock had that old self-assured smile on his face as he straightened up, and John watched, slightly dumbfounded, as he went bounding up the steps two at a time.

_What the hell…_

With one last confused glance at Mrs. Hudson, John followed him up—albeit a bit slower.

When he reached the top step the detective was already perched in the armchair, steepled fingertips rested against his lips.

"Okay. Alright… what the hell was that?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock turned his head toward him, raising an eyebrow. "Whatever do you mean?"

" _That._ " John nodded back toward the stairs. "You're…  _happy._ "

"Oh…" Sherlock shook his head with a slight smile. "Of course I am. How could I not be? I have a  _case._ "


	55. Displeasure

_"Okay. Alright… what the hell was that?" John nodded back toward the stairs._ _"You're… **happy.** "_

_"Oh…" Sherlock shook his head with a slight smile. "Of course I am. How could I not be? I have a **case.** "_

"Like hell you do."

"Pardon?" Sherlock frowned.

"You heard me. I've been saying this all along. No cases until you're completely in the clear." John crossed his arms stubbornly, hating himself for having to do this.

Seeing Sherlock actually happy about something for once in forever was... nice. No, it was  _fantastic._

_And now John had to take that away._

He was aware that Sherlock was probably seeing him as something of a cold-hearted devil at the moment, or a pointless obstacle to work around, but he wasn't going to give way.

_He would have to hold his ground._

At first he just looked confused, but then Sherlock's expression grew darker and darker. His gaze was sharp, and it seemed to cut right through John like a razor blade.

_Displeasure._

John braced himself for the inevitable.

"You're not my mother.  _So stop acting like it._ "

"No, you're right. I'm just your friend."

" _I know!_ " Sherlock leapt out of the chair and paced a few steps. "You can't be serious... I've held back for over two weeks... I can take care of myself... I  _need_  this! I can't stand this anymore—just lying about every day, being reminded to take pointless pills, and doing _nothing!_  The boredom is indescribable! The ennui is  _physically painful!_  You have no idea—"

"Sherlock—I know. I know you hate this. But I'm just trying to do what's best for you."

He scoffed loudly. "If that was really what you were trying to do, you'd have no problem with me taking this case."

"You know that's not true. Your immune system is still—"

"Oh, shut up! Who really cares about that? I'm _bored!_ "

"I care about that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Quit being a doctor for once, and stop trying to boss me around. I've accepted your help for as long as I needed it, and now I'm perfectly capable of taking care of my own transport again,  _thank you very much._ You don't have to play nurse anymore."

"Is that what you think I'm doing? Jesus..." John had to take a moment to roll his eyes, take a deep breath, and collect himself. "You know what? I take it back—you  ** _are_** _spectacularly ignorant._ " He ignored the scandalized look on Sherlock's face. "You…  _massive twat…_  You're going to make me spell it out for you, aren't you? That's what I have to do. I have to be the one to explain the obvious. You… You're just… _This is ridiculous._  Sherlock Holmes. Listen closely—and don't give me that look—" He took another big breath, composing himself. "I… care… about…  _you._  Okay? I don't care about your…  _bloody experiments,_  or your mind palace, or your detective skills—I care about _Sherlock._  I mean, I do care about those things, but I don't  _care_  about them— _I said don't give me that look._ "

Sherlock seemed frozen with an expression of deep incredulity.

_Shell shock._

_Blank stare._

_Confusion._

_…Uncertainty?_

"Sherlock…? Is this news to you…? What did you think I cared about?"

The detective drew in a deep breath and shook himself out of his stupor. "That's…" He struggled for a few seconds. "…Illogical."

"Why?"

He tilted his head and blinked, surprised that John had questioned it. "Well… obviously… because… Clearly, it's… well…"

"Human beings are worth more than just their skill sets. I wasn't sure if you knew that."

"Yes,  _I know_." Sherlock sounded defensive now, trying to recover from his momentary slip. "I know that."

"And you're a human being, too."

"I… know that too."

_Not so sure._

"But do you know what I'm saying?"

"I…" Sherlock spoke slowly, testing his footing and finding there to be no solid ground anywhere at all. "Of course I do."

"It's true. I don't care what your massive intellect says on the contrary, it is. Believe me, this is one thing I know better than you do."

Sherlock swallowed.

_The uncertainty had swallowed Sherlock._

"I'm… not sure how relevant all this is to the… current argument."

"You mean about me letting you take the case?" John almost smiled wryly. "Well… I just had to explain to you exactly why I said no. Because you might get hurt. But, how about this… if you can find one that you can figure out from in here in the living room, mostly, then maybe I'll be more agreeable. Okay? Otherwise, no. But later? Yeah, absolutely."

Sherlock's fists clenched at his sides, and John could see his jaw set. "John… do we have any rubber bands?"


	56. Rubber bands

_I'm bored._

_But that's really not the problem._

_Why do I feel guilty?_ _I shouldn't. It's not my fault._

**_It is my fault._ **

_I'm likeable, as a person? **Really?**_

_If that's true, then... I've been an idiot. Everything I've done... all I've ignored..._

_I wonder if that's why John always got so upset. It never made sense before, but this way it does..._

_But it's extremely unlikely. The only evidence I have for it is what John says._

_I am not good with people or relationships, I am rude and curt, and confused by human behavioural tendencies. I am stubborn and moody and whiny._

_Surly, peevish, and sulky._

**_I know._ **

_This is me._

_I am not likeable._

_I am not friend material._

_I am not normal._

_But I **am**  incredibly clever. I know my way around a crime scene like normal people know their friends._

_I'm useful. I'm helpful._

_When I'm really on fire, I'm the best. They need me, and they know it._

_That's what people like._

_They like that I'm good at what I do, because it makes their lives easier. I just find it an interesting distraction._

_We meet in the middle, there._

_They like the work, but not necessarily the one who does it. But many of them do at least try to pretend._

**_I wish they wouldn't._ **

_I can see the truth in their faces, and read it in the way they deal with me._

_I would really prefer honesty, even it's hateful._

_They waste everyone's time._

_I've figured out exactly how to play my strengths, to build up walls and rules and control to keep the unpleasant humanness contained, and deal with myself._

_That's the only way I can keep from being completely and utterly alone._

_It's difficult sometimes, but I'm accustomed to it._

_That's why I shouldn't be feeling guilty. It's not my fault._

_I'm working, here._

**_...But what if John isn't lying?_ **

* * *

_"John… do we have any rubber bands?"_

John just stood there for a few seconds, knowing he was slack-jawed, and that his brows were furrowed in concern.

_Rubber bands._

_That meant..._

He swallowed. "I... I don't know. Do you need to...?"

"Never-mind. What I need is a distraction, which you've refused me. So yes, I suppose we  _do_ need more rubber bands." He gestured at the door. "Don't worry, I'll wait here."

"I'm not leaving you here alone."

"Rubbish."

"You could come with me."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "I have better things to do."

"Then... I suppose we'll have to figure out something else to help instead. Any ideas?"

The detective stared at him skeptically for a moment, and then turned away to flip open John's laptop and begin typing energetically.

"Hey-" John stepped forward, but Sherlock held up a hand to stop him. "That's password protected!"

"Yes, it was."

"' _Was...'_ " John gritted his teeth to hold back a growl of frustration. "That's  _my_  laptop. You need to ask me for my permiss-"

"Aha-here we are!" Sherlock wasn't even listening, but his eyes had been scanning quickly over the screen, and now he straightened up. "You said if I found a case I could solve from in here, I could do it. I believe I've found it."

" _You twat..._ " He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed heavily.  _No use getting cross._  "Well, what is it?"

"You remember 'Mr. Anonymous,' don't you?"

John frowned. "Yes... But... Sherlock, you already know that was just something I-"

Sherlock caught his eye and gave him a quiet, pointed look.

_'Yes, I know._

_I'm perfectly well aware that you wrote it._

_I know it's not real._

_This is the case I'm choosing.'_

He turned back to the laptop as if none of that nonverbal communication had ever happened-as if it truly were just another case.

"I believe I could probably solve this one without even getting up from the sofa... But it might prove to be just a little more challenging and time-consuming than most of my other cases have been. I... won't ask you for any more information from the subject, considering I can probably find out anything I need to know by myself. ...but I might need you once in a while, just as a sounding-board, you know. Although most of them are, not  _all_  of your ideas are useless."

"Wow... gee, thanks." John intoned dryly, but he couldn't help but wonder if he was really hearing this.

_Was he imagining that double meaning?_

_Could Sherlock really be considering turning that deductive gaze upon himself?_

_If he was..._

"Oh, but by the way-" Sherlock looked up at him over the laptop screen. "Don't start thinking this means we won't be needing more rubber bands. Because we most certainly will."


	57. So do I

Almost two weeks went by, and John began to wonder if Sherlock was actually working on this 'case' at all.

_How could he tell?_

But one afternoon found John coming back from work to find the detective stretched out in the armchair, in a posture of deep thought. He looked up as John came in, and followed him about with his eyes for a few minutes before finally taking a breath and sitting up—probably his first movement in quite a while.

"John, I need to talk to you."

"Hmm?" John paused and looked up from the teakettle, trying to decide if he should be worried or...  _something._

_He could never be sure._

"It's about the case. I need some information from the perspective of a completely average person."

"Okay... I'm tempted to be a little insulted by that, you know."

"Oh  _please._ " Sherlock waved a hand. "Save it for your therapist."

John grumbled under his breath as he carried his cup of tea over to his chair and settled in, glad to finally relax after his long shift. "So. Spit it out. I'm tired and I want to go to bed soon."

Sherlock sat back in the armchair, pressing the tips of his fingers against his lips as he formulated his next sentences. And, come to think of it, probably the entire conversation, as well.

Finally he leaned forward a bit, looking at John quizzically. "Our Mr. Anonymous made quite a big deal out of the fact that he was bullied in his youth. So... is that... normal?"

"You... want to know if it's normal to have been picked on all through school?"

Sherlock just looked at him impatiently, prompting an answer.

"Well..." John readjusted himself in the chair uncomfortably. "No. No, it isn't. Some people do have a little trouble here and there, sometimes, but... Not usually  _that_  much."

"Hmm..." Sherlock fell back into deep thought, looking more puzzled now than ever.

"Um... So... em... What do you think? Could that have been a... factor in all this?"

"It's possible... But it shouldn't have been that much of an issue. People are people, and he probably learned to deal with them."

"Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."

Sherlock turned his head toward him, and the look he gave him started to make John a bit uncomfortable.

"Sorry,  _sorry..._  What do  _I_  know...? I'm just a _'completely average person...'_ " He shook his head tiredly and resigned himself to sipping his tea.

"Maybe you're right."

John almost choked, and nearly spit scalding tea all over himself.

The detective just tilted his head curiously. "Are you having some sort of fit? Don't. Because if you are, I don't know how to do CPR, and you'd probably die."

"I'm... not... having a fit... Just, em, got caught in my throat."

"Well then, you're incredibly bad at drinking tea."

"Shut it. I'm just not used to you actually _agreeing_  with me. About something like that."

"It's a possibility. I have to consider all possibilities, no matter how unlikely. In fact, in most cases the most improbable option is actually the truth. But I can't be sure until I have proof."

John set his cup down on the side table, for fear of accidentally aspirating any more of his drink. "And how do you propose to get this proof?"

"I…"

"If you don't know, just say it. It's not that hard. 'I don't know.'"

Sherlock just scowled slightly and shook his head. "This may have been a bad idea… if you're going to be so damn cheeky about it…"

"No. I think it was a really good one, actually. And I… really hope you can solve this one."

"…So do I." He nodded slowly, pursing his lips. " _So do I…_ "


	58. Reflecting

_Of course it wasn't enough._

Working on his own case was good, yes, but that alone could not fill the aching need the detective felt to be working on an actual case.

_Something real._

_Interesting._

_Exciting._

John had expected that.

So it had come as no surprise when Sherlock had finally accepted a real case, once John had deemed him healthy enough for the challenge. It had gone well enough, so far—until tonight.

It wasn't the first time it had ever happened.

John should have expected it, too.

But it was still no less irritating when the detective had a sudden idea and rushed away from the crime scene, leaving John behind in his wake. When John had finally realised what was happening and hurried down to the street, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

_Damn it to hell._

He'd taken a fucking cab. To who knew where.

**_Honestly..._ **

John let out a low growl of frustration and gave the pavement an aggravated kick. He really, _really_  wished Sherlock wouldn't do that.

_So much for teamwork._

He was so preoccupied with trying to hail a cab of his own, intending to go back to 221B and wait for him there, that he hardly noticed Sally Donovan walking past.

"You know, I'm really not surprised he's done that again."

He glanced around to find her there, with a hand on her hip and a pitying look on her face.

"Hm? Yeah, well... I'm not..."

"I almost feel sorry for you."

"What?" John frowned slightly. "Why would you? I'm perfectly happy."

"Yeah? You're so devoted; you follow him around everywhere and do everything he tells you to, even though he's a twat. You poor little love-sick puppy."

"Shut up." John rolled his eyes and turned his back on her. " _I am not love-sick._ I'm a  _soldier._ "

"And he's just a lunatic, and he will  _always_  let you down."

John felt the cold chill of fury crystallising in his chest, and he had to work to keep his fists down at his sides.

_Don't hit her._

**_Don't hit her._ **

_Don't look at her._

_Don't…_

"You're wrong."

"Am I?"

" _Yes._ " John refused to justify her by turning around.  _He could do this._  "You don't know _anything_ about him. I can't believe you're even saying this, after all that…  _You have no idea…_ Okay?You're… you're just jealous, aren't you? I can tell. No, nevermind—I don't even care—just…  _stop_. Alright?" He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry he's rude, we're working on that—but just leave him alone. You don't even know."

_There—a cabdriver was **finally**  paying attention…_

Sally opened her mouth to respond, but before she could John had climbed into the cab and slammed the door.

_Not interested._

_He'd already said too much._

* * *

John glanced at the clock again, and sighed.

_Eight o'clock pm..._

_And still no Sherlock._

He could have done with a text. A phone call, maybe.  _'Don't wait up, I'm busy doing things without you.'_

_This was just annoying._

He rested his cheek in his palm and let his eyes wander over to the fireplace. The first place Sherlock had hidden his blades. John could remember it well, even though it had been ages ago, now.

He could remember the fear.

The worry.

The shock.

Not to mention  _his own_  feelings.

There had been difficult times, and times when he had thought things were getting better, and... times when he knew they weren't.

It had been confusing, to say the least, but...

In a way, also enlightening.

Enlightening because it had shown him things about Sherlock that he probably would never have found out otherwise. It had given him a new perspective on the detective's generally hostile attitude, and he now felt somehow like an insider.

He knew things few other people did.

He'd seen scars that almost no one else knew Sherlock had.

_Not to mention the physical scars._

John shut his eyes for a moment, reflecting.

He still didn't feel like he really knew Sherlock. No one did. But he was possibly one of the closest human beings to him.

_And that was something._

Before now John hadn't really thought about what the words 'best friend' truly meant. It had always been just a thing you say; a title thrown about generously on childhood playgrounds between youngsters who will soon forget the other ever existed.

_But that's not what it meant to Sherlock._

With him, 'best' was synonymous with 'only.' It had always seemed as if it didn't bother him, as if he wanted to be alone—but now John could see that wasn't entirely true.

He had simply come to terms with the fact that he was friendless, and refused to let it appear that it bothered him.

_He was always aware._

_'Oh come on, who would want to share a flat with me?'_

And now that he had John... Back then, he'd been shocked to realise that John actually considered him to be his best friend.

Maybe that phrase meant more to him than it did to most people.

Maybe he needed that more than most.

"John? Are you asleep?"

John nearly jumped out of skin, gripping the arms of his chair and sitting bolt upright, head snapping about to look at him. "Oh  _god_ —Jesus, Sherlock— _don't do that to me!_ "

Sherlock shrugged, stripping off his coat and disappearing into his bedroom for a minute.

John just sat there, letting his heartbeat come back down to normal, and finally heaved himself up.

_Eight thirty... A little late for dinner, but a detective's got to eat._

He padded over to the kitchen and started a pot of tea before poking about in the cabinets for something to fix.

When Sherlock finally returned, changed into his lounging clothes and dressing gown, John had a pot of pasta on the hob and two cups of tea on the table.

"Solved the case, then?"

"Mm." Sherlock nodded absently as he took one of the cups, warming his fingers against it.

"Have fun?"

"Moderately."

John watched the detective retreat to the sofa and curl up, quite obviously at least a little knackered.

_Moderately **my arse.**_

"Pasta okay for tonight?"

"Mm."

"Not speaking much?"

"Mm."

John couldn't help but smile.  _He really was an insider. A best friend._

_And Sally would never really understand._


	59. Game on

_It was the boredom._

_It was driving Sherlock crazy._

_Well, crazy-_ _**er.** _

For a while John attempted to ignore the frustrated sighing and the irritated muttering—because what could he possibly do about it? It wasn't his responsibility. If Sherlock was bored, he needed to find something to do.

_Plain and simple._

_But not something destructive._

"John."

"Mm..."

" _John._ "

" _Hm?_ "

" ** _John._** "

" _WHAT?_ " John finally looked up from his book and glared at the detective, who was languishing half on, half off his chair. " _I've been saying 'what'!_ "

"No you haven't. You've just been making little grunting noises."

" _It's the same thing!_ "

"No it isn—"

"Oh,  _shut up!_ " John purposely hid behind his book, determined to ignore him.

"John..." Sherlock let himself slide even lower down in the chair. "I'm  _bored..._ "

"Hmm."

"I need a case, John... Get me a case..."

"You already have a case. Finish the Anonymous one first if you're bored." John didn't even bother to look up this time.

Sherlock only groaned again, supremely frustrated. "No, I meant a  _case._  Something _interesting._ "

"Your case is pretty interesting."

"What?" The detective turned his head to look at him inquisitively.

"Uh... nothing. Check the blog, maybe."

Sherlock frowned and settled back into his chair, but fairly soon he heaved himself up and started pacing the room agitatedly. John did his best to ignore it for as long as he could, but finally he had to put the book down again.

"Okay. Either you have lost your mind, or you're going through some kind of withdrawal."

"I told you, I'm  _BORED._  B-O-R-E-D, _understand?_ " Sherlock stopped pacing just long enough to glare into the empty eye sockets of the skull on the mantelpiece, as if daring it to say something even more stupid than his blogger had.

"Yup…" John bent over his book yet again, shaking his head. "Lost your mind… Oh well…"

"John.  _Get me a case._ "

"Get your own damn case. I'm busy doing nothing, for once. Look, I've got a book." He held it up for the detective to see, as if it were some sort of anti-work talisman.

"It's upside-down." Sherlock watched him through the mirror as John fumbled about with the book for a second, turning it right side up again. "You haven't been able to concentrate, either. We both need a case. You do get so very dull when you're normal. And, really, John— _a sweater-vest?_ "

John frowned down at himself, but the detective wasn't listening. "I thought it looked alright..."

Sherlock probably would have gone on ranting had the phone not rang, making John jump slightly. When he picked it up he cleared his throat and did his best to tune Sherlock out for just another moment, which turned out to be slightly difficult.

"Hello?"

"It's Greg. Turn on the TV,  _now._ "

* * *

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN,  _HE'S BACK?!_ " John's voice rose several decibels and he stared at the blank TV screen, which Sherlock had just switched off again—but the mocking chorus of  _'did you miss me? Did you miss me?'_  still rang in his ears.

"I don't know either—" Even over the phone John could tell that Greg was panicking. "It could be a hoax, we don't know—"

"HE SHOT HIMSELF IN THE HEAD!  _HE'S_ _ **DEAD!**_ "

" _So was Sherlock!_  Look, I'm just saying—we don't know! This is happening everywhere—somebody's hacked the system—"

John let the phone slip from his fingers and clatter to the floor, and he looked up at Sherlock with wide eyes. The detective was standing quite still, seemingly mesmerised.

"Sherlock."

_Not even a blink._

" _Sherlock._ " He swallowed hard. "You know what this means."

He finally appeared to live again, turning his intense gaze on John. "...Yes. Jim Moriarty is back in business. And that means..."

"He's still after you."

" _The Game is still on._ "


	60. Not lying

John rose early that morning, acutely aware that he hadn't slept a wink.

_He hadn't been able to._

Every time he closed his eyes, something had forced itself into his semi-conscious mind—the fall, the look in Jim Moriarty's eyes, the promise of something more to come...

_Not a very relaxing environment, honestly._

He rubbed a hand across his eyes roughly and stumbled into the kitchen, making a beeline for the coffeemaker. At that moment, that was all he could let himself think about.

_Hot, bitter, caffeinated..._

"Hmm...?" As he stood by the sink his eyes fell on something laying on the countertop; something small and thin and reflective in the morning gloom.

For several moments he forgot to turn the tap off.

For several more he didn't care.

_Razor blade._

_Razor... blade..._

His head snapped up and he looked toward the detective's room; the door was shut, and the light was off. But that didn't automatically mean he was asleep.

_What if..._

"Sherlock?" Coffee forgotten, John went over and knocked on the door.

When there was no answer he started to feel a slight flutter in his chest.

_Fuck privacy._

_He couldn't risk it._

There was a soft click as he turned the knob and pushed the door open, flooding the room beyond with dim light that stretched off into the far corners. The bedcovers rustled, and Sherlock groaned groggily.

" _Sherlock._ "

"Mm...  _Go away..._ "

"I will, but can you sit up for a minute?" John's eyes searched for any signs—anything at all—but found nothing.

The detective rolled over and glared up at him through narrowed eyes, not bothering to brush aside the messy curls that cascaded down into his face. " _What._ "

"Morning to you, too, sunshine. I just... um... can I check you over? Really quickly?"

"You could at least buy me dinner first..."

"I'm not joking! You know what I mean!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed even further, and he raised an eyebrow. "I assume you mean as a doctor, but... I don't see why you would..."

John crossed his arms over his chest. "Oh,  _you don't see why?!_ I think it should be  _pretty damn obvious!_ "

"John...? Have you been drinking...?" Sherlock groaned under his breath. "It's too early for this..." He rolled back over and pulled a pillow over his head in an attempt to block the doctor out.

_But John would not be blocked._

"I'm not playing around, Sherlock!  _Listen, dammit!_  If you're... having trouble, you can come talk to me, okay? I just... don't want to see you go back down that road again."

Sherlock pushed the pillow aside and looked up at him quizzically. "What on  _earth_ are you going on about now?"

"You... you left a blade on the counter. I worried maybe... I mean, I can't help but think..."

"No I didn't."

John stopped, frowning. "It's okay to admit it. I won't judge you. I just don't want you to start doing that again."

"No, I didn't do that. I don't have a blade."

"Sherlock...?"

"I'm not lying—don't give me that look!" Sherlock sat bolt upright, scowling darkly. " _I didn't do it!_ "

"Okay, but can I just see your arms...?"

"Like hell you can! You don't need to, because I didn't do anything! I'm telling you the bloody truth, okay?!" The detective had drawn himself up defensively, bristling as John took a step closer.

"If you didn't, then there's no need to be so defensive. Just let me check you."

" _You're doubting me!_ "

"No, I'm just worried about you."

" _Leave me the hell alone!_ " Sherlock kicked the duvet off and swung his long legs off the side of the bed, stalking past him into the kitchen. "I'm telling you,  _I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!_ "


	61. This Sherlock knew

John found him there, in the kitchen.

He stood by the sink, wrapped up in a sheet and staring intently down at the little blade on the counter.

John walked up to him carefully, padding across the linoleum. He watched the slight tilt of the head, the narrowing of the eyes, and the furrow in the brow.

_Odd..._

"This wasn't here last night."

"No, it wasn't..." John rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet uncomfortably. "Uh..."

"But if I didn't do it, and you didn't do it..."

" _Sherlock._ Be honest with me. Are you being serious, or is this just some scheme to keep pretending it's not yours?"

Sherlock looked back at him with a scandalised expression on his face. "I've told you before... _It's not mine._  Look. I'll even let you have this thing searched for prints and DNA, if that's what it's going to take to prove it to you.  _Happy now?_ "

"I don't... I don't think that's necessary..."

" _Of course it isn't, because I've never seen this blade before in my life!_  And even if I had, I would have cleaned it chemically, so a test would be useless!"

"Not really helping your case, Sherlock..."

"You just have to trust me! Oh,  _COME ON!_ When have I ever lied to you?!"

John licked his lips, glancing up at the ceiling pointedly. " _Ummm…_ "

"Well… aside from that… and that… and…  _that._ I'm… I'm being honest here. I… promise. Cross my heart and hope to die, or whatever stupid things normal people say. I didn't do anything. Really. If I had I'd be telling you right now. I'm clean."

* * *

_It was never just the simple fact that you were cutting yourself._

_That wasn't really what made it so hard._

_It was the fact that you couldn't tell a soul._

_This Sherlock knew._

_You were always so painfully aware of those scratches and scars; you carried them everywhere you went and dealt quietly with how much they made it hurt just to do the simple little things._

_Changing clothes._

_Showering._

_Moving._

_But that was just physical pain._

_Easy enough to deal with._

_You did it to yourself, so that was justified._

_The hardest thing was that no one knew. No one sympathised with you. No one was sorry. It would be so easy just to reach out and pick up that phone, to open your mouth and say something..._

_But you couldn't do that._

_This Sherlock knew._

_No matter how much you wished to tell someone—anyone—you couldn't._

**_You would not let yourself._ **

_For fear._

_You couldn't even have put it into words, really, but just for someone else to share the weight of that knowledge... It would have been an incredible relief._

_But that would mean the relief in blood would have to stop._

_The real release._

_No._

**_No..._ **

_Those razors had become your friends; you had favourites... If they took them away from you..._

_It would be almost like losing family. Family that shredded skin…_

_So you kept your mouth shut._

_This Sherlock knew._

_When someone did know, it was… bittersweet. Someone was finally sorry… someone finally sympathised and fed what you viewed as your self-centred longing with unwarranted hugs that made you feel strangely sick inside._

_Because they cared._

_They cared when you didn't deserve that._

_They cared even when your heart felt as if it weighed three hundred pounds, when, on the worst of the worst days, even drawing breath was difficult._

_Even if you didn't say anything, they cared._

_Even if they didn't understand._

_This Sherlock knew._

_But in the end, they took those friends away from you. They tried to keep your skin intact, at least. What they didn't know, then, was that they had taken on the responsibility of those blades._

_They had taken their place._

_And now they had to help you._

_But it wasn't just them; you had to try, too. You had to put up a fight, because you couldn't always let other people fight your battles for you._

**_This Sherlock knew, and this was why he had not cut._ **


	62. Mycroft never said

"Well if it isn't yours, how did it get here?" John had crossed his arms over his chest and was looking from the blade on the counter to Sherlock, and back again. "Are you going to tell me it just fell out of the ceiling or something?"

"While that may be plausible, considering some of the things I find myself doing when I'm so desperately bored, no. Which means there's only one other possibility."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?" Sherlock turned to look at him, puzzled.

" _That._  That face. And talking like we both know what's happened."

The detective tilted his head and frowned, drawing the sheet tighter about his shoulders. "We do."

"No, you do. I have a feeling I'm not going to like this, either."

Sherlock took a deep breath and spoke with a forced slowness, and John knew he was mocking him but he decided to try to ignore it. " _Obviously,_  somebody broke in and left this here. Why would anyone do that? Clearly not your run of the mill forced entry. Nothing stolen. So, motives; this was left here to tempt me, most likely. So it would have to be someone who knows about my little...  _hang up._  Who does that leave? You, of course, my brother, Lestrade, and Moriarty. And out of those four, which do you think sounds like the most likely candidate? Ten points if you say Mycroft; I would too."

" _You're joking._ "

"Yes, actually. Moriarty is far more likely—especially since we had that little heads up about his 'return to life' the other day."

Sherlock slipped a hand out from under his sheet and reached for the blade, but John quickly stepped over and got between him and the counter. For a moment the detective just stood there, frowning down at John, who remained stubborn and unmoving. Then he sighed in exasperation. " _Relax,_  John, I wasn't about to slit my wrists. I was  _inspecting evidence._  That's part of my job."

"Shut up." John set his jaw, trying to put on his best soldier face. "You can't make a joke out of this. Okay? That's not going to make it go away."

"And you being overly cautious isn't going to do that either."

"I'm just trying to be your friend. Let me do that. Stop pushing me away, because it's not helping."

Sherlock stared at him for several more seconds, and then stepped back. "Okay... But understand that you're being unreasonable. I'm going to have to touch a blade once in a while. That doesn't mean I'll automatically relapse."

"But do you  _think_  you will?"

"No,  _of course not._ " He shook his head decisively, rolling his eyes.

"Sherlock."

"...Maybe. But that doesn't change the fact that you can't just keep me in an empty room for the rest of my life. You can't protect me. I'm going to go out there and get hurt— _that's what I do._  It's what happens when you're me. It's unavoidable, and therefore there's no use in you worrying about it."

"You just don't get it, do you?! I  _can't help_ worrying! That's what  _I_  do! And if getting hurt is already unavoidable, then why do you think you have to do it to  _yourself,_ too?! Isn't it enough already?!"

Sherlock hesitated. "It's just... unavoidable."

"It's  _YOUR_  choice!"

"That I  _had_  to make. My choice."

"Why?!"

* * *

_8th June 1986, 2:35 pm._

"No! Don't be stupid, Sherlock—mummy isn't going to let you go anywhere near the Yard!  _Sit down!_ "

Sherlock didn't answer, and kept pacing back and forth across the living room. Mycroft was watching him from the sofa, but Sherlock ignored him as best he could.

"You're twelve years old—they're not going to listen to you, obviously."

" _But I'm right!_  Something's off— _where were his shoes?!_  He cared about those shoes! He wouldn't have just thrown them out!"

"It doesn't matter if you're right.  _You_ aren't important enough to anyone to be a valid source for a case. Listen, Sherlock... you know this already. Nobody cares. Don't bother trying to make yourself heard if you can't prove anything. You know nobody listens to whiny little brats—they have to respect you first."

" _I can't!_  I can never make them like me enough!"

"They don't have to like you. They can hate your guts and still respect you, so take advantage of that. Don't show any weakness, or it's  _over._ Understand?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, finally pausing from his incessant pacing.

"Good." Mycroft settled back on the monstrous couch, his little feet just barely touching the floor. "I don't expect you to get it right the first time. You've always been a little...  _slow._ "

"No, I'm not!" Sherlock bit his cheek hard, and clenched his hands into fists. "I'm smart!"

"No, you aren't. You're little and stupid, and you haven't made any use of yourself in twelve years."

"I'm not stupid!"

"You are. Mummy and daddy are very disappointed, and so am I."

" _No!_ " Sherlock's collar felt tight, and his ears were burning.

_Not stupid..._

_Yes..._

Mycroft slid off the couch and gave him a condescending look. "Look at you. You've _proved_  you can't do this. Just now, you showed an incredible amount of weakness. If you can't stand up to me, how can you deal with anyone else? You're pathetic and whiny, and people don't like that."

"I..." Sherlock swallowed hard. "I'm not stupid..."

"Oh,  _forget that._  It might be halfway true, but that's not what we're really talking about. Do try to keep up,  _please._  The point is, you have to toughen up."

"...Yes..."

* * *

_8th June 1986, 9:40 pm._

_He wasn't a disappointment._

Sherlock stood alone in the middle of his room, shoulders hunched, glaring down at the floor.

_He wasn't..._

_But..._

Without warning he broke the silence and kicked a nearby shoe as hard as he could. He could feel the crunch of his bare toes against the heel, and for a moment everything was just a blinding, searing flash of pain—but then it slowly subsided again, and little Sherlock slid back into rational reality, cussing under his breath.

His toes weren't broken, he could tell that much. Just pain.

_Oh..._

As he sat on the bed, massaging his aching foot, he remembered what he'd been so upset about just a moment before.

_He knew why it made him upset._

_He was angry because it was true_.

_He wasn't as smart as Mycroft, he wasn't respectable, he wasn't mature, he wasn't liked, and he wasn't useful._

_All because he was so stupid that he would let his emotions control him. He couldn't afford to do that. There had to be a way..._

Sherlock's eyes fell on the shoe, now lying halfway across the room, and a realisation slowly took root in his young mind.

_He was still angry._

_He was still upset._

_That didn't go away._

_But it had to be contained._

_And the only way to be able to keep it that way was to find a way to occasionally relieve the pressure, to lessen the ache, distract from the truth..._

What didn't kill you made you stronger. That's what daddy always said.

And just a little bit of physical pain never killed anyone.

_Right?_

* * *

It started innocently enough.

When the frustration got to be too much, sometimes he would tug at his curls until he winced and hissed in through his teeth. Other times he would slap himself across the face a little bit, palm open, just to calm down—but that made a sound, so it was more difficult to hide.

Mycroft never said anything.

Scratches, he found, helped too. So, when he requested a dissection set for his thirteenth birthday, science was only half of the reason he wanted the scalpels.

It was a high-end set, and the blades were sharp.

The first thing he used them on did not turn out to be a frog or a mouse.

Mycroft never said anything.

Neither did Sherlock.

Nobody ever did.


	63. Consulting Detective

_12 August 2001, 4:45 pm._

A lot had changed in sixteen years.

Sherlock had grown taller, more outwardly confident, and, most importantly, he'd managed to find an in with Scotland Yard's fairly new DI, Detective Inspector Lestrade.

He wasn't really a friend, obviously, but he was slowly becoming more dependant on Sherlock Holmes and his incredible deduction skills to solve the Yard's more difficult cases. Under the radar, of course, because that technically wasn't police protocol.

_But Sherlock didn't care._

He didn't need recognition; he was having fun, doing what he was good at, and people liked it. If the Yard couldn't give him a position, he would make his own.

**_Consulting Detective._ **

_That sounded right._

It felt good on his lips, and gave him a warm, heady feeling that he vaguely acknowledged as pride. A pleasant, fleeting feeling.

He still had those.

_Feelings._

But now they were kept buried deep below the surface, enclosed in a thick glass shell. Keeping them contained had become an exact science, a second nature, and by this time it would probably have been difficult for him to be open with anyone even if he wanted to be.

His personality was set.

Twenty-seven years old, and Sherlock Holmes knew  _exactly_ what he wanted.

_Distractions._

Busy was good, bored was bad. Bored was uncomfortable. Bored was painful.

Because when you were bored you thought about things, and when you thought about things you felt them, and when you felt them...

_That, and the fact that it was just so mind-numbingly_ _**dull.** _

It was so much easier to fill the void with adrenaline, or even cocaine—to keep the brilliant mind working hard so the neglected heart could be ignored.

Somewhere between fifteen and twenty he had graduated from just hurting himself and moved on to drugs. It had been in an effort to keep that void filled, to keep the blood pumping and the brain sparking.

_No down-time._

_But that didn't mean the first need was gone._

It got under his skin sometimes, and called to him when the pressure was high, and the frustration higher.

When he wasn't making any headway.

When he failed.

_That's when the need was the strongest._

He'd had half a mind to try to avoid doing it again, and yet he kept a few supplies on hand anyway—blades, antiseptic, bandages—just for emergencies.

Emergencies like this one.

He hadn't been able to figure it out—the latest case Lestrade had asked him for help on had proved difficult even for him. An unsolved murder always weighed heavily on him, like an anvil of dissatisfaction that pressed down on his chest and made his heartbeat skip.

_He failed._

_He wasn't good enough._

_He'd never know the answer, and he'd never be perfect._

_And that hurt._

It bothered him enough that after he'd returned home he'd taken a long, cold shower, and after that he'd sought out his emergency kit. He'd laid everything out on the bedspread, looking it over first, reflecting slowly.

_A detective's entire purpose was to solve._

_Key word,_ _**solve.** _

_And he couldn't even do that right._

_The only thing in the world that he was good at, and he'd screwed it up._

_He still needed that rush._

He gritted his teeth and pushed his sleeve up, nails digging into his pale skin.

He could still see all the little white lines there, up and down, likely permanent reminders that he'd been weak before and couldn't afford to be again. It only sent another wave of anger and frustration crashing down over him, and he quickly selected one of the blades and set it against his arm.

_Cold._

_Sharp._

_Stinging._

_Like an exhale; it made it so much better, like nothing else ever could._

_Frigid steel relief._

* * *

_12 August 2001, 6:18 pm._

"Sherlock? Are you in there?" Greg Lestrade rapped again on the Consulting Detective's door, but again received no answer.

Sherlock had gone home earlier, leaving Greg with a suggestion that he come by and let him know if any more information presented itself regarding the current case.

_The now_ _**cold** _ _case._

_But perhaps now..._

Greg had called first, of course, but nobody had picked up the phone.

He knocked again, harder this time. "Hey! I don't have all day! Do you want this information or not?!"

Only silence came back to him, and Greg began to wonder.

He wondered what on earth was taking the detective so goddamn long.

He wondered why he was starting to feel uneasy.

This was interesting stuff. Sherlock should be jumping at the renewed chance to solve this thing—shouldn't he?

He was almost completely certain Sherlock would have gone directly home. He didn't have any friends he hung out with anywhere, no other cases to work on, and he'd looked tired when he'd left.

_He had to be here._

Asleep?

No, it was only six in the afternoon, and the man was like a personification of London itself, running on all cylinders day and night, never stopping.

_Something didn't feel right._

"If you don't open this door in the next four minutes, I'm coming in, got it?" Greg ignored the hoarseness in his voice from yelling all day, clearing his throat and willing himself to hold still.

One.

Two.

Three…

Fuck it.

The door was unlocked, and welcomed him in with a low groan of its cheap hinges. The front room was just… chaotic. That's all Greg could describe it as.

He'd met the detective's older brother before and knew that the Holmes family was generally fairly well to do—so why Sherlock was living in a dump of an apartment like this was anybody's guess.

The tang of harsh chemicals assaulted his nostrils as he passed the 'kitchen,' side-stepping all sorts of random knick-knacks and boxes of papers and who knew what else. He kept a lookout for the detective as he moved through the apartment, calling out uncertainly.

Around the corner, in the hall.

That's where he found him.

Sherlock was sprawled on the dusty carpet, very white in the gloom. As Greg knelt beside him he could make out a dark stain on his sleeve, against his skin, and on the carpet beneath him. Even in the murky hallway, Greg Lestrade recognised blood when he saw it.

It wasn't an  _incredibly_  huge amount, but it was more than he had expected to see.

_And it still scared him._

" _Sherlock?_  What the hell happened?" He scrambled for a light switch on the wall— _somewhere_ —but when he finally found it and flicked it on, the difference was only minimal.

Sherlock was stirring by the time he had hurried back over, and blinked groggily and tried to sit up. Greg gingerly pushed him back down, still not sure exactly what was wrong.

"No, stay down. Can you talk to me? What happened?"

Sherlock swallowed and turned his head, clearly drowsy and slightly dazed.

"Sherlock?  _Talk._ " Greg had begun to look him over, searching for the injury. He quickly found that most of the blood was soaking into his left sleeve, and very, very carefully attempted to pull it up a bit.

What he found made him cringe.

Slice after slice after slice, deep and cruel, carved into the detective's skin. He immediately tried to think of possible explanations—a fall, maybe, or an accident with a knife, or…

_They were all straight and even._

_In a line._

_A perfect row._

_Too many for an accident._

Greg swallowed hard. "Hang on. I'm going to call you a doctor, okay?"


	64. Blackness

Sherlock's memory of those next few minutes after Lestrade had found him was patchy at best, but he could recall opening his eyes and seeing the detective inspector kneeling over him, his voice much too loud and yet strangely far away.

_Blackness._

Then Lestrade was fumbling with a cell phone; the fact that he was probably calling an ambulance vaguely registered in Sherlock's mind, and he tried to shake his head.

The simple sight of blood frightened normal people... But Sherlock had seen it too many times to care. He wanted to explain to Lestrade just how childish he was being, how much he was overreacting...

_He was okay._

_Blood was okay._

_Why couldn't Lestrade see that?_

There was absolutely nothing to call anyone over, nothing to worry about...

_Blackness._

Lestrade was shaking him by the shoulder gently—and yet Sherlock felt sick at the movement. He tried to speak, but he found that his body would not obey him, and the sound cracked in his throat.

At the same time, the denial shattered.

_He was going to die._

He was going to bleed out here, on this shitty old carpet, in near darkness, with only a man who must think him pathetic and powerless beyond measure to keep him company.

He hadn't  _done_  anything yet.

He wasn't  _finished..._

The game had hardly even begun.

And yet...

_Blackness._

* * *

Things were different after that.

For a little while Lestrade seemed hesitant to call on him about cases, as if he were afraid he would somehow tip the apparently fragile balance between sanity and self-destruction in Sherlock's brain.

It drove Sherlock mad.

No, more than that.

_It triggered him._

But he resisted as best he could, dealing with the seething frustration and boredom any way he possibly could without breaking the skin.

He had, after all, just nearly died on the floor.

Too many stitches to count, and a nicked artery to boot. He had played along with the doctors and psychiatrists, did as they had asked and recited his lines whenever they asked him their stupid questions.

_"Yes, I'm fine."_

_"No, I'm not suicidal or homicidal. It was an accident."_

_"I feel better now."_

_"I'll stop."_

In the end, he'd gone free.

He was already aware that at that point in time other people didn't really understand what he was doing. Nobody was yet accustomed to dealing with people who did what he did. They didn't quite know how to look at someone who hurt himself on purpose.

That only made the crushing burden of shame heavier on his shoulders.

It only triggered him more.

He was sick of being the freak… in more ways than one.

So although he didn't respond when the attending nurse made a comment on how useless it was to sew him back up if he was only going to do it all over again, her words struck a chord.

Maybe it  _was_  useless.

He didn't deserve the care if he'd chosen to do this to himself. That was what she'd meant, ultimately.

_Sherlock hated hospitals._

And yet he hadn't died. He was still alive and kicking, and in time he knew that Lestrade would have to ask him for help again. He always had to.

He was just that good.

* * *

"—ock..."

_Slow, foggy shadows across the mind._

"—erlock?"

_Getting clearer..._

"Sherlock. Hey. Earth to Sherlock Holmes."

His eyes slid into focus and immediately locked on John, who was waving a hand in front of his face warily.

"Hm?"

"There you are. You zoned out or something, I think. What's wrong?"

Sherlock frowned as he took stock of his surroundings all over again, the morning sunlight pouring in through the windows, the blade on the countertop... "Your coffee's finished—I've been standing here for over two minutes, at least. Why didn't you slap me or something?" He pushed himself off from where he'd been leaning against the counter and turned, heading back to his room. "It's useless to dwell on the past."

John just stood there for a minute, head tilted slightly. "...What?"


	65. Cut to the chase

The afternoon dragged on slowly.

John was hesitant to annoy Sherlock by checking in on him, as he wasn't exactly in a mood for being whinged at, but by the time lunch rolled around he decided he wouldn't stand to have the detective skipping another meal for no reason.

The first few knocks on Sherlock's door went unanswered, which wasn't exactly a surprise. But as he knocked again, and again, with still no response, a frown furrowed his brow.

"Sherlock? Are you awake? Really, Sherlock. I'm almost a hundred percent certain you're not asleep.  _If you're ignoring me—_ " A cool breeze tickled his ankles from beneath the door, and his frown deepened. "What the hell...?"

He turned the knob and pushed the door open, finding it almost pulled out of his hands as another draft came in through the open window inside, sucking the heat out of the room like some sort of invisible utilities vampire.

"Sherlock?"

A quick glance about the room proved that unless Sherlock was hiding underneath the bed, he was definitely not present.

_But why the hell was the window open—?_

_Unless..._

John stepped over to it and leaned over the cold sill, scanning the street below, but there was no sign of anybody there except a few passing pedestrians, tightly wrapped up in parkas and sweaters and paying absolutely no attention to him or to the rising taste of worry in his throat.

_Where the hell had he gone?_

If he hadn't somehow slipped past him and left through the front door—which John was almost certain had not happened—then could he have gone by way of the window? There was a fire escape fairly nearby, but still...

A further investigation showed him that not only was Sherlock gone, but so were his coat, scarf, and shoes.

So he'd definitely gone somewhere.

_But why now?_

_Like this?_

_And where on_ earth _could he have possibly needed to sneak off to so desperately?_

* * *

Sherlock's mobile was buzzing in his pocket again, but he didn't bother checking it. He already knew where the conversation was going.

#0207-6756-858 had contacted him over an hour ago requesting  _'a nice little chat,'_  and seeing as he had nothing better to do, and it had to get done sooner or later, Sherlock had dressed, slipped on his coat, and knotted his scarf around his neck.

The window had been a necessary inconvenience.

John was in the living room, and there was no way Sherlock was going to chance having him insist on tagging along.

It just couldn't happen.

_Not this time._

There was a brisk chill in the air, but Sherlock appeared not to notice it. No time for such things, really, when there was something so interesting to be done.

By this time a thick layer of menacing cumulonimbus clouds had spread themselves over the sky and smothered the sun in their swirling, dark grey waltz across the heavens.

Sherlock picked up his step. Not enough to demonstrate any real sort of worry, but just enough so that, by his calculations, he would reach his destination just in time to avoid the downpour.

The purposeful sound of his footsteps on the pavement followed him just out of the nicer neighbourhood and into a dingy side street. His feet barely needed the mental directions he gave himself.

_Fifteen and a half steps._

_Your destination is directly on your right._

As he stalked up the front steps of an older, apparently abandoned flat, the first raindrops began to fall. He could still hear them spattering across the frigid concrete as he ascended the stairs inside, having found—expectedly—that the door was unlocked.

_Careful, skip the seventh step..._

He smirked to himself as his brain registered the warning before he'd even reached the third.

Old habits die hard.

The atmosphere inside the flat would be best described as dull. However, to Sherlock, every speck of dust was vividly familiar, every whiff of stale, chemically perfumed air—even the ancient bloodstains still embedded in the hall carpet.

As if it were only yesterday.

He paused, standing there in the dim hallway with his hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the shadows with a half-interested gaze.

"I'm a bit disappointed." He finally broke the silence, his own voice loud and harsh in the darkness. "This is incredibly predictable of you. _Boring._ "

He heard the haughty sniff from the end of he hallway before he saw him.

Heard the catlike footsteps on the carpet before he saw the glint of those eyes.

And caught the smell of his cologne before he saw that mock friendly grin that didn't reach those eyes.

"It's good to see you, too, Sherlock." Moriarty took another step forward, separating himself from the shadows. "I would apologise for making this so sudden and all, but you know me. I'm just  _sooo_  changeable! I thought we might as well have a friendly little reunion, now that I'm back and all... I'm glad you got my little invitation."

"Of course I did.  _I remember that blade_." Sherlock didn't let his gaze stray down to the bloodstain between them, instead holding Moriarty's stare unflinchingly. "Cut to the chase."

Moriarty smiled coyly, turning and moving off toward the tiny kitchen. "I would offer you tea, really I would, but I'm afraid your kettle's rusted."

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes, and let out a silent sight. "It was always like that."

"You really did live in a little shithole here, didn't you? I'm surprised you made it out. No wonder you felt like killing yourself."

" _Shut up_." Sherlock's teeth clenched, but his hard expression didn't change. "I said,  _cut to the chase._ "

"Oh, I will. Don't you worry about that. But you've  _really_ got to learn to loosen up a little bit, Sherlock dear. It  _has_ been  _so_ long since we've had a play-date. Oh... But there  _was_  just one other  _itsy bitsy little thing_  I've been  _dying_ to ask you. So." He stopped and looked over his shoulder at him, grin widening maniacally, though it still didn't quite reach his eyes. " _Did you miss me?_ "


	66. Machines don't bleed

"As I'm sure you've figured out by now..." Jim settled into the lone, sad looking chair in the other room and propped his feet up on the countertop. "...I know all about your demons. They're cute, really... I found it exceedingly amusing to go over your life's history. You know how funny blood can be."

Sherlock's jaw tightened minutely at the suggestion.

_The accusation._

The unspoken yet eloquent jab at the soul he'd tried so hard to kill.

_'You're pathetic. You suffer because you're weak. You deserve it and it's all terribly silly.'_

But the consulting detective would not let that show. He would not give Jim Moriarty the satisfaction of having gotten to him, nor would he display those disgraceful signs of weakness.

_No expression._

"Well." Jim crossed his arms leisurely over his chest. "Do you know why you're here?"

_Obviously._

"So that you can attempt to manipulate me using what you  _think_  you know about my personal history, most likely in order to handicap me so that I'm less of a threat, probably through the use of violence or intimidation."

"Well, when you put it like  _that_ —yeah, pretty much."

There was relative silence for a moment, as the heavy rain continued to beat out a steady rhythm on the roof above their heads. Somewhere off in the dinginess a slow drip could be heard, getting louder in Sherlock's ears the more he tried to focus.

_Drip..._

_Drip..._

**_D..._ **

**_R..._ **

**_I..._ **

**_P..._ **

"You've noticed already, haven't you?" Moriarty's voice slid through the cool air like a hot knife through butter. "Like what I've done with the place? It's all  _just_ for you.  _Special._ "

True, for the last fifteen minutes Sherlock had been carefully keeping his eyes centred on Moriarty in order to avoid straying anywhere close to the innumerable items strewn about the flat, all carefully placed to just catch his eye here and there, and all painfully familiar.

That box-cutter blade, dulled from constant use.

That bent pin, that now rusted utility razor, and that scalpel, sharpened multiple times throughout its little metallic life.

_A gallery of blood._

"I thought you might like a little stroll down memory lane. Well—" Moriarty's laugh was harsh and unfeeling. " _I'd_  like it, at least. But who knows... maybe it won't be so bad for you. You like pain, don't you, Sherlock? You enjoy it."

The shadow of a frown darkened Sherlock's features, but he didn't let it linger. "Oh,  _come on._ You're cleverer than that. Obviously I hate it."

"Well of course  _I_  know that. But you must be aware that to... all other people, that's not what it looks like. You look like a sicko, Sherlock." Moriarty shook his head pityingly, never once breaking eye contact. "You look like a freak to them.  _And then they find out that you do this, too..._ Well, you best pray your little pet doesn't decide to jump ship. They all do someday. You know that."

_He did know that._

Instead Sherlock lifted his chin resolutely and stared the sharps head on. "If this is designed to scare me, it appears you've lost your touch."

"Oh, I don't have to scare you. You do that  _all by yourself._  You're afraid of that need, aren't you? You're unsettled by the fact that you  _crave_ something so unacceptable. You're scared that you want to destroy yourself  _so much._ "

" _Please._  I've never been scared in my life."

"You're craving it right now, aren't you? A little tense, hmm?"

Sherlock only scowled at him with a look that clearly said  _'oh please...'_

_Please stop it now._

_Before this goes any farther._

_Before I can't deny it to myself any longer._

_Before I crack._

But on the outside, he said nothing. Didn't let a hint of anything show, didn't let on that frost was slowly creeping in around his heart and lungs, clutching at his breath with icy fingers that threatened to strangle him no matter what he did.

_Soon._

The room was too familiar. The memories were so sharp they could draw blood—and most of them were stained crimson, just like the carpet had been, long since turned rusty brown.

"See? I can tell. I can see that look in your eyes, Sherlock." Moriarty sat up in the chair and leaned toward him, staring intently. "It's always there.  _Always..._ "

Just like a trembling hand finally swipes the blade across the skin, so quick there's almost no time to process it, and for one fragile second the cut remains still, surreal and empty before the blood wells up and spills forth, overflowing like the wound is weeping for its own pain—that was just how Sherlock snapped.

" ** _You._** " He glared daggers at Moriarty and swallowed hard, finding it impossible to breathe. " _You never felt pain, did you?_  Why did you never feel  _pain?_ "

"Oh... You  _always_  feel it, Sherlock. But you don't have to  _fear_  it. Pain, heartbreak, loss... death... _It's all good_. But you know this. This is old news to you, isn't it?"

"No! I'm a machine! I don't need  _feelings!_ "

"Machines don't bleed, Sherlock. I hate to tell you this," He smiled up at him. "But it looks like you're malfunctioning."


	67. Pain always ends

_Loneliness is cold and confusing._

_Shame is hot and sickening._

_Loss is empty._

_Heartbreak is a deep, burning agony that never stops._

_Fear and unknowing sit heavy in the chest, like lead weights._

_Devastation is torture._

But physical pain ends.

_Physical pain is sharp and focussed, warm and cool, a welcome distraction. It is controlled, and then it ends._

_It can bring a smile to the lips, even as it brings a wince and a sharp breath sucked in through the teeth._

_It is expected._

_Wanted._

**_Needed._ **

_And the best part?_

_Crying is optional._

* * *

"Now of course, I know all this must be so hard for you, hm?" Moriarty pouted in heavy mock concern, batting his eyes at him. "I bet you think about it every single day. Every second of every minute... Except when you've distracted yourself with one of those silly little games. Cases. They always end, Sherlock. And so will you."

He pushed himself up lazily and sauntered across the room toward him. "I know why you do it. It's the control, isn't it? Gives you a high. But that high always ends, and isn't it so much worse afterward, when you realise all you've got is pain to mask pain? Hm? Don't you just feel so _silly_? I would if I were you." Moriarty smiled at him with wide eyes, twirling a finger at his own temple.

He brushed past him through the doorway and out into the dark hall, brushing his jacket off. "You know, Sherlock, I'm disappointed. I expected  _soooo_  much more from you, I really did. But I suppose you're only human, too... _You're ordinary._  You're no better than a flighty schoolgirl. And not much smarter, either, considering you've come here to meet me even though you knew what I'd do. Pathetic..."

Sherlock's jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth would crack. "You're predictable. You think I would be afraid of  _you?_  I have better things to think about."

"And yet you did come... Makes me wonder, you know? Maybe you wanted it."

"You can't end me... And you don't want to." Sherlock's eyes flicked back to the dark shape in the hallway, shutting down systems all over his brain in order to just keep that fragile sliver of cool.

_That tiny defence._

The shadow turned and looked at him, smiling. "No,  _I_  don't want to. I want _you_  to." "

You want me to commit suicide...  _again._ " Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really... I did think you would be at least a little more imaginative than that. I'm disappointed."

"Oh..." Those eyes glinted in the dimness, looking straight at him. "I don't just want you to pretend to die. This time... I'm tired of your acts. It'll be easier this time, won't it? Now that you've had a practice run and everything. I got all dressed up and everything, see?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "The blades are for me... and yet you brought a gun."

"Well, you know, I've never been a fan of those sharp things. I find they just kind of...  _hurt._ "

_The last pin dropped inside Sherlock's skull._

_The last puzzle piece snapped into place on an all black tabletop, and he paused._  "...You don't want to be rid of me."

Moriarty laughed harshly, and came closer again, facing him. "No. I don't need to get rid of you."

"There'd be no point... You just want someone to die with."

"Fabulous deduction, I'm impressed! And it only took you _THREE YEARS, DOOFUS!_ " Moriarty lunged toward him, spitting the words in his face like hot coals that burned his skin like nothing physical ever could.

_He'd been blind._

_He'd been stupid..._

_Slow..._

_Defective..._

**_Worthless._ **

Sherlock swallowed the bitter taste that was rising in his throat and focussed on just keeping his spine straight. " _You..._  What do you have to be suicidal over?"

" _Nothing!_  That's the  _point!_  I'm bored, Sherlock... Just staying alive... It's so  _dull._  Just  _staying._  But this-this is something interesting. I get to toy with you, which is always fun, and then I'll never be bored again. Simple."

Sherlock silently mouthed those words, 'never be bored again.' The thought had crossed his mind before. It had always been a little unnerving, just how attractive it had seemed to him.

_To never be bored._

_To never be anything._

_No loneliness, no loss, no shame, no fear..._

_Just... death._

Because pain always ends.


	68. Damaged goods

"You failed, you know. You're not really so clever... So what do you really have, in the end? _Friends?_ " Moriarty rolled his eyes, shaking his head pityingly. "Sherlock Holmes, the Defective Detective..."

_The twist of the knife..._

Sherlock stopped breathing. The burn in his lungs couldn't even come close to matching the feeling in his chest.

_Humiliation._

_Shame._

_Desperation._

_Self-worth, crushed beneath those shiny dress shoes on that old, bloodstained carpet._

This was it. This was what he hated. What he had wished never to feel again in his life-but it was always there, in the depths of his mind...

_You failed._

_You're not clever, and you're not special._

_You aren't likable._

_You're unnecessary._

_You deserve nothing, and soon everyone will leave you behind._

_Just like they always do._

Despite his best efforts his hands had begun to tremble slightly, and he clenched them into fists. The rain was slowly beginning to let up above them, reduced to an uneven patter on the rooftop.

Moriarty took another few steps toward him, eyes locked on Sherlock's. "You know they don't need you. I can see that. You act like you don't need them, but in reality you're helpless, aren't you?  _Poor, lost little Locky..._  I almost feel sorry for you. Except I don't really."

"Back off."

" _Oh..._  have I hit a nerve? This is interesting."

Sherlock forced himself to take a deep breath and calm his transport, to regain that pokerface and  _focus._  "You aren't just bored."

Moriarty arched an eyebrow. "Trying to be clever again, are we?"

"...Nobody's  _born_  like you. People like you are _made._  What was it, then? Mommy didn't love you? Daddy hit you?"

For a few seconds Moriarty just stared back at him-and then he threw his head back and laughed, short and breathless-sounding. "This isn't about me, Sherlock! This is about  _you._  But if it would make you feel better, maybe. On the same thread of logic, though, people with your coping mechanisms and tendencies aren't just born, either. You're messed up. Broken.  _You're damaged goods, Sherlock Holmes, and everybody knows that._ "

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson?" John tried not to sound too desperate as he knocked on their landlady's door. "Did Sherlock say anything to you about going out? Or did you see him?"

"No-heavens, has he run off again? You know, I remember once when I was having a bridge meet in my living room, that man-"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but this might be a  _bit_ important." John backed away quickly and turned to bound back up the stairs, pulling out his mobile and dialing Sherlock's number.

When, after several seconds of holding his breath, he only received the detective's dour voicemail message, he rolled his eyes, took a deep breath, and began.

"Sherlock. Where are you? I wouldn't bother, but you disappeared and you've been moody for the last few days, so I... I mean I would bother anyway, but-point is, call me back. Please. You know I just worry."

_Beep._

* * *

A slow, silent breath hissed out of Sherlock's lungs.

_Damaged goods._

_A broken calculator..._

His phone was ringing, but he tuned the sound out as he slowly turned and raised his eyes to the knife that was resting there on the counter, tantalizingly within reach.

" _That's right..._  A quick swipe, a little stab, a deep incision... Whatever you prefer... And then it'll all be gone. You'll never have to worry about any of it ever again. Never be bored, right?" Moriarty's grin had widened as he had drawn his pistol, pulling the hammer back with a click.

Sherlock paused and looked up at him, desperately trying to read his expression while displaying none himself. "You're serious about this."

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm dead serious. I promise I won't call you an ambulance." He snickered lightly and glanced at the gun. "As if I could, hmm?"

Sherlock reached out and very, very slowly closed his fingers around that knife, reassuringly heavy in his hand.

_And he knew that he could do it._

_He could take it._

_He was completely and absolutely capable of doing this._

_Dying would be easy; it was living that was hard._

* * *

"He's not working on any cases of ours." Lestrade shook his head at John apologetically. "Haven't heard from him for a little while, actually. Best of luck finding him, though."

John sighed in frustration, but managed a smile. "I'm sure he's just out  _being Sherlock_ somewhere, whatever that amounts to."

"He's probably found himself a case, knowing him. He just attracts trouble, doesn't he?"

John nodded, smiling through gritted teeth.

_Whatever that amounts to._

* * *

"We could do a countdown if you like." Moriarty toyed with his gun lazily, although by his eyes his interest was definitely piqued. "Or you could just slice and dice as soon as you want. You'll be here longer."

Sherlock knew that was true... It would take him quite a while to bleed out enough to actually die.

It would be messy.

_Not that he'd care about that._

He'd lie on that familiar floor and just bleed... Arms laid out, feeling the warm blood pour out and listening to the pitter-patter of rain overhead, and then after a while things would go dark, and he wouldn't feel much of anything anymore.

And then it would all be over.

And he'd never have to wake up.

The pain would end.

"Remember all those times you almost bled out? It'll be like that, but simpler." Moriarty was looking at him now. "Lestrade might think you're a coward, but he thought that anyway. And you'll be dead, so who cares? There'll be articles in the paper. But it won't be because anybody cares, mind you, it'll be because it's a good story. Hardly anybody will show up at your funeral. They'll be glad you're gone."

"You, as well."

Moriarty laughed again. "I know. It'll be funny, won't it? Both of us caused so much trouble... And even now, we'll be causing somebody at least a little trouble, having to clean us up. What a job that'll be. Can you imagine what they'll be thinking?"

"What use is that?" Sherlock ran his finger along the edge of the blade, feeling the sharpness, testing...

"Just a final little interesting note... But anyway, Sherlock... Just think. When you're gone, Mrs. Hudson won't have to deal with you shooting up her walls or otherwise ruining her flats. Molly won't have to bother with trying to save her heart for you, which we both know was never going to happen. Anderson and Donovan might even throw a party. Your brother probably won't really care anyway. He never does, does he?"

Sherlock had closed his eyes as he held the knife, not intending to listen but finding himself agreeing anyway.

"Their lives will all be  _so much easier,_  so much better... Oh, and don't even get me started on John."

Sherlock's muscles tensed, and his eyes snapped open, drawing in a deep breath of stale air.

**_John._ **

Moriarty was too engrossed in his own words to notice that Sherlock had stopped running his fingers over the blade. "John's going to be  _sooo_ relieved not to have to go running after you every couple of seconds, or tend to your stupid injuries, or comfort you when you're all whiny and depressed. He might even thank you. He's tired of worrying, you know. That's all he ever does anymore. You've killed his love-life."

The rain had stopped, and a deathly hush had fallen over the flat, broken only by Moriarty's voice and the thud of Sherlock's heart against his ribs.

_'All he ever does...'_

"But he  _is_  going to cry. Stupid, pathetic tears... and then he'll stop. And he'll go on with his life, just as if you had never even- _what are you doing?!_ "

The clatter echoed against the bare walls as Sherlock let the knife fall from his hands and drop to the floor. He raised his eyes to look straight at Moriarty's stricken face.

" _No._ "

"What do you mean,  _no?!_   _You want this!_  I know you do! I can see it in your eyes-look, it would be so easy, so  _simple-_ "

"No." With immense effort Sherlock tore his focus away from that blade, away from that room, and turned toward the door.

" _Wait!_ " Moriarty was almost screaming now. " _Don't you dare move, or I'll kill you myself!_ "

Sherlock could hear that hammer click, and he paused, not looking back at him. "I wouldn't have wanted it. You'd still be alone."

"No! You  _do_  want it! I'd just be  _helping_  you!"

"This is what it comes down to? Honestly... I'm disappointed in you. I expected something more, but in the end you're just a crazy, lonely mental case."

_Just like me._

"You're not going  _anywhere,_  Sherlock Holmes!" Moriarty's voice cracked. "You're going to stay here and die, because  _I NEED THIS!_ "

Sherlock kept his eyes on the door, listening intently to every sound behind him.

_'You've killed his love-life.'_

"I'm not staying here for you. You're not worth it."

Sherlock hardly heard the deafening sound of the gunshot. He registered a white-hot agony tearing through him before a dark curtain fell over his senses and he collapsed onto the ancient, dusty floor with a hollow thud.

_'He might even thank you...'_


	69. Miscalculation

_Sherlock still hadn't turned up._

No reply to the message.

Not even a text.

No word.

For some reason John was beginning to feel uneasy-like always, but different, too. Sherlock often went off on his own, but it wasn't so often that he simply  _disappeared._

_That usually seemed to be bad news._

And so John really couldn't help it that he jumped when the telephone rang. He couldn't help being so quick to answer it, or so letdown when the caller turned out to be Lestrade, and not Sherlock.

"John? Are you in your flat? Look, I just got a text. From Sherlock. I think you'll want to come with me."

* * *

"He texted  _you?_ " John couldn't hide the note of skepticism in his voice, but Lestrade seemed to understand, and nodded.

It just didn't seem like him.

"Yeah, I know. It's an address. Or most of one, really. But I recognise it." Lestrade held up his mobile to show him. "I'd been there a pretty long time ago. ...pretty bad experience, actually. That was... how I found out about...  _you know.._." He awkwardly gestured toward his arms in a mime swiping action, which both got the point across and also started a hot feeling of displeasure roiling in John's stomach.

He couldn't explain why that pissed him off.

But it did.

_It did..._

"But I thought that must be where he is, or wants us to go, so I thought you'd better come along, yeah?"

John swallowed and nodded. "Yeah. Cab?"

"That's okay, we can take a car. I'm ready if you are."

"Ready."

* * *

John didn't speak most of the drive there.

He wouldn't have known what to say.

Lestrade tried once or twice to tell him about some past events, but John wasn't focussed enough to hear him or really pay attention.

When Sherlock Holmes disappeared out of the blue, remained out of contact for hours, and then suddenly just texted  _Lestrade_  an address... Something was wrong.

_He could feel it._

_It was the only thing that made sense._

_Right?_

And yet at the same time a little part of John's mind was bracing himself for a potential false alarm... A letdown, that shaky feeling from all the adrenaline and the worry pumping through his veins. Also all too familiar.

By the time the car had pulled up in front of a run-down looking row of flats it was already getting dark; most likely a perfect time for drug dealers and other assorted hoodlums to be out to greet them. John was really just following Lestrade as he parked and mounted the front steps of the dank apartment ahead.

There was graffiti on the front wall, and it lacked a postbox. The two of them found the door to be just slightly ajar, and carefully entered the building.

Somehow it seemed almost  _too_  quiet. As if there should be at least some noise aside from the dripping of a leak somewhere-but there was nothing.

_Absolutely nothing._

" _Oh Jesus-_ " John jumped as Lestrade stopped abruptly ahead of him on the staircase, taking a step back.

"Wha-"

Oh.

_Oh god..._

That drip was obviously no leak. Instead, he watched the steady  _drip, drip, drip_  of dark crimson blood pooling from underneath the doorway ahead and down onto the first step, soon to reach the second.

_Sherlock._

Lestrade quickly turned the knob and pushed-and found a heavy resistance on the other side. The staircase was too narrow for both to approach the door at the same time, so John was forced to wait behind as Lestrade continued to push and shove at it, finally resorting to ramming at it with his shoulder, which seemed to help, as the door finally budged enough for them to squeeze through.

Despite it's pungency, the thing that struck them first was not the reek of old chemicals that filled the air.

_It was the crimson._

_It was everywhere._

It was streaked on the floor, in footprints on the carpet, and pooled around the deathly still body lying just in front of the door.

Without thinking John knelt in front of the body and turned it over-but even as he laid a hand on the shoulder he knew at once that he was dead. As if the bullet hole in the back of his head weren't evidence enough. He stared into Jim Moriarty's cold, white face, and instantly felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach.

_Where was Sherlock?_

"John-over here-" He raised his head at the sound of Lestrade's voice and found him kneeling a few feet away, pressing two fingers to the side of Sherlock's neck.

He was laying on his back on the carpet, still and pale and slack and stained in shades of scarlet. There were slices on his arms... random and rakish, right through the fabric of his shirt. And another little pool of blood was forming beneath him, by his ribs...

The sight of him like that, prone, eyes half closed and lips slightly parted, sent a jolt of something so much worse than fear through John.

What it was, he would never be able to explain.

_It killed him._

Lestrade looked up at him, panicking. "I can't find a pulse-"

" _NO._ " John wasted no time in pushing Lestrade aside and falling to his knees beside Sherlock's prostrate body, quickly placing two hands on his best friend's chest and starting compressions, desperately praying for a response, and stubbornly expecting one.

_Milliseconds were eternities._

_The slightest perceived movement was a mountain of hope that then fell like a skyscraper in an earthquake._

_There was nothing else in the world but the tiny, fleeting breath that escaped from Sherlock's lips._

**_And then there was a world again._ **

The moment Sherlock jerked painfully, coughing and choking, to finally draw in at least one proper breath... It sent a chill through John's bones.

A good sort of chill.

It meant he was still there.

_At least for now._

"Come on, Sherlock-hang on- _please_ -" His voice shook, even as he tried to steel himself, to be calm for his fallen brother in arms.

_Because that's what he was._

In this great war of London, Sherlock was a soldier fighting through every battle, whether it be against a criminal mind, or against himself.

John could recognize that.

Sherlock gasped for breath, and John's heart twisted in an unfamiliarly agonizing way.

Lestrade was already dialing for an ambulance, but John barely heard him. He continued to keep his best friend's hand clenched tightly in his own, trying to somehow wish strength into his body, to will him to hold on.

Help would arrive within a matter of minutes.

But John wasn't sure how many minutes really remained on the clock.

_Sherlock treated this war like a game, and this time he may just have miscalculated._


	70. If he wakes up

_Everything was fuzzy to John._

Everything passed in a blur that was interrupted by sharp jolts of cold adrenaline when the paramedics moved Sherlock into an ambulance, and then again when he seemed to fade slightly before they were able to bring him back from the edge.

That black, freezing edge.

_A jolt._

The edge of terror to John.

He thought his own heart would give out before they reached the hospital, and even though it didn't it still felt as though it were wrapped in wreaths of razor-wire that tightened every time Sherlock's breaths seemed to take longer and longer in between.

_Hold on..._

**_Please..._ **

* * *

Dawn came and the sun rose, just like any other day.

The halls of the hospital bustled with day nurses coming in to work and night nurses ending their shifts, just like any other day.

The hours would pass, the clocks would tick, and the world would go on just the same as it always had if Sherlock Holmes were gone.

_Just like any other day._

For everybody but a select few, that is.

For those privileged yet cursed people, the world would not go on. Life would not ever be the same. It had been that way before.

Normal would come to a screeching halt, like a train that's lost its wheels and subsequently flipped over and over several times, crumpling and shedding ripped metal and broken glass in a shower of deadly confetti and eventually tumbling head over heels off a cliff and into the depths of the sea.

And unfortunately everybody on-board would live.

Live to feel the agony of the shattered end of normal.

_Those privileged people._

_Just like any other day._

But today, this morning, John could only focus on just how relieved he was not to have to be a part of that train-wreck.

The one everybody had so narrowly dodged.

The wheels would stay on, because Sherlock Holmes was too stubborn to  _die_  that easily. And of course by saying 'easily' John would really not be saying the whole truth, because in reality Sherlock had died in that ambulance. His heart had paused.

_Ten seconds..._

_Twenty seconds..._

_Thirty..._

_Dare John even remember forty...?_

And then the wheels had come back.

That black, freezing edge would not yet claim this train.

_Not tonight._

* * *

"He somehow crawled a few feet from where he'd been shot, and managed to text you."

_Yes, thank you Anderson._

_We knew that already._

Neither John nor Greg voiced this, though, instead nodding and glancing at the consulting detective between them, laid out on a hospital bed.

"I could stay, maybe, if-"

"Yeah, I don't think Sherlock would like that much." Greg stubbornly ignored the fact that Sherlock was currently knocked out on a heavy dose of painkillers and other medications, and was in no condition to care about much of anything.

_Still wouldn't like it._

_Too much stupid is bad for recovery._

Anderson scowled like a little kid kicked out of a funeral because he doesn't really understand what it is. Once he'd left a relative quiet reigned in the room, broken only by the soft beeping of the heart monitor and the sound of the two men's breathing.

"He's... em... gonna be alright, you know." Greg obviously wished he sounded more sincere, but it was too late for that.

John sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. He's..."

"An idiot."

John almost couldn't stop himself from breaking into an uncomfortable chuckle. "He is. Really, really stupid. The crazy, reckless, stubborn..."

_Too reckless to care about himself._

_Too stubborn to die._

He trailed off into silence again, glancing up at the monitor screen, watching it spike with each heartbeat, every intake of breath...

_God Sherlock, why do you have to do this..._

A sudden beeping made him jump, and immediately his eyes searched the screens for any change-and then Greg shook his head and held up his mobile, checking the caller ID first.

"Well... I should be getting back to work. I hate to go, but I'll be back. I promise. Tell me if he wakes up."

"I will. Course." John nodded quickly as Greg stood.

_If he wakes up._


	71. John remembered

John could remember a lot.

Not all of it was pleasant—or even mediocre—but memories continued to surface as he sat there by Sherlock's hospital bedside, some just appearing in his mind like quiet reminders, and others clawing their way to the top with bloody, broken fingers, shrieking and wailing inside his skull, demanding to be heard.

To be felt.

One such memory had stayed with him for years. It dated all the way back to just after he'd learned that Sherlock had ever hurt himself. Back when it was just dawning on him that the consulting detective wasn't really as coldly unfeeling and robotic as it had seemed.

John shut his eyes and pictured what that had looked like.

He remembered the darkness he'd woken to, lying in his bed and hearing noises in the kitchen: footsteps, cursing.

He remembered the bright face of his alarm clock, proudly blaring a neon  **4:16 AM.**

He remembered feeling that perhaps something wasn't quite right.

A valid feeling to have, all things considered.

He pushed himself up with a groan and shoved his feet into his slippers, trying to get the feeling back into his left arm, which, unlike the rest of him, stubbornly remained asleep.

There was only one light on in the kitchen, and he could see the weak glow filtering in under his door. With a tired sigh he shuffled across the room and turned the knob. "Sherl'ck...?"

The footsteps paused.

Sherlock stopped dead and turned to look at him, his eyes a little wide and shadowed and his cheeks a little pale, holding a towel to his arm with one hand while he tried to search through the drawers with the other one.

John was instantly awake, shaken out of his drowsiness by the little hint of panic he could feel emanating from the taller man.

_It made him nervous too._

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"Nothing-"

John watched him bite back a wince, and quickly took a few more steps forward. "No, something's wrong. Wait, did you...?"

He could feel his stomach dropping as Sherlock only swallowed and turned away in place of an answer, and he knew at once that he was right. John's eyes went to the towel Sherlock was holding to his arm, and in the weak light he began to see the colour seeping through the fabric, turning what was white to red.

"Sherlock..."

" _Don't lecture me!_  It's-I... I'm just..." He let out a breath. "I'm taking care of it. Okay? Go back to bed."

"Are you sure? That's a lot of blood..."

" _Yes._ " He spoke with a forced matter-of-factness through gritted teeth, trying to remain in control. "I hit a vein, but I can fix this. It's okay."

John just looked at him for a moment. He thought of all the things he wanted to say to this rigidly composed wreck of a man, all the things he wanted to do.

And then he held out his hand.

"Let me see."

"No. I said-"

"I'm a doctor.  _Let me see._ "

Sherlock hesitated, and it seemed that he was at the same time anxious and relieved. And then, slowly, he held his arm out to John, still with the towel over it so as not to drip on the floor and ruin the landlady's carpet.

"Come here. Sit at the table, and I'll get a light and my kit, okay?" John would never describe Sherlock as meek, really, but this was the closest he came to it.

When John came back Sherlock was leaning back in the chair with his eyes closed, just breathing. He didn't open them as John set the kit down on the table and pulled a chair up next to him. It was only when the doctor leaned forward and gently straightened his arm that Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him, quiet, waiting.

_Uncomfortable._

John spread another towel out on the tabletop and lay Sherlock's arm on it before carefully removing the bloody compress.

Despite what he'd seen in military hospitals, the neat little incisions in his best friend's skin sent his stomach turning somersaults and his jaw tightening. It almost made him feel as if he had been snipped up by a giant pair of emotional scissors.

As soon as the pressure was removed the deepest one began to bleed again. It wasn't a horrible gush of blood like you might see in the movies, but that didn't make it any better.

It kept dripping.

A steady, methodical little crimson drip that tickled the skin on its way to the tabletop. Definitely a vein. "Sherlock... you're not going to want to hear this, but maybe-"

" _No._  Just put pressure on it. They waste your time in AE, anyway."

John wasn't prepared to ask how he knew that, so instead he bit his lip and set to working, carefully cleaning the smaller cuts and wrapping a gauze bandage round his arm to staunch the bleeding. It took all his gauze, and all his willpower not to say anything about it.

He sighed as he stood up to put the bloody towel in the sink and run the water over it. "Keep holding it. If it bleeds through, don't lift it, because-"

"-that might remove the clot and keep it bleeding. I know." Sherlock leaned against the table. "I hate to tell you, but I know how this works. This just hadn't... happened for a while. I wasn't planning on it."

" _Fucking hell..._ " John stopped, leaning heavily against the sink, head lowered.

"Hm?"

John gritted his teeth. "You don't  _plan_  on this. You NEVER  _PLAN_  on this. This is... It's not even... Normal people don't do this, Sherlock. People don't  _WANT_  to  _HURT THEMSELVES_. It's just..."

Sherlock was looking at him quietly.

"...Yes?"

"It's just... sad." John swallowed his voice and turned back from the sink, drying his hands on his pyjama trousers and trying to think of exactly what it was that he had really wanted to say.

But that was all that came to mind. That was the only word his tired brain could fit to what he was feeling, despite its incredible inadequacy.

Sherlock seemed to sense this inner dialogue and didn't push it, looking down at his arm and shutting his mouth.

_No, normal people didn't want to do this._

_But Sherlock wasn't normal._

The kind of people who wanted to do this sort of thing... John had trouble even imagining the thoughts inside their heads.

_It scared him._

To be so near to his friend, in the same room even, and yet to feel so far away from him, to have no idea what kind of dark thoughts or unusually painful things might be harboured in that tall, resolute body.

Locked away inside, with no key in existence.

With only the occasional nicked vein to show that anything was wrong.

_It truly scared him._


	72. Are you alright?

_Time passed too slowly._

It crawled along, inch by inch, tick by tick, day by day, as if it knew the pains it caused and purposefully pushed itself slower and slower, merely to prolong the agony.

The doctors said Sherlock had woken up.

John hadn't been there.

_He'd missed it._

It had only been a little while, before they had him drugged again to let him sleep through the pain.

And in that little while, John hadn't been there for him.

He had chosen just that little while to get up and get a breath of fresh air, since he'd been sitting by the detective's bedside for twenty-four straight hours.

He cursed himself for not having lasted twenty-five.

Greg told him not to blame himself, but the DI's own visits were getting farther in between. It wasn't Greg's fault-he had a lot on his plate, what with work and all-and John tried not to let it bother him, but on some subconscious level it felt as if yet another person was abandoning Sherlock.

Or maybe it was just that without Greg there, everything was quiet.

Sherlock, clearly, was not a big talker at the moment.

Perhaps next time.

John would catch him next time he woke up, he decided.

He wouldn't leave again.

No matter how long it took.

_He would not abandon Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

John's head jerked upright, his eyes springing open, and he blinked dazedly in the dull hospital room lighting.

_Something had woken him._

He knew exactly what it was-but he preferred to just call it 'something.' That was a lot better name than 'flashbacks of blood and death and falling off buildings' would be.

Sometimes they came back to him.

_Some times like this._

He sat there for a moment, listening to the quiet beeping of various monitors, looking at nothing in particular. For now, that was the easiest thing to do. Finally he drew a soft breath and sat back in his chair, letting his eyes drift across to the window, and then back to the detective's bed. And then he sat bolt upright again.

Sherlock's eyes were open.

He had been staring up at the ceiling, but now he was looking right at John, watching him, and he hadn't even said a word.

John quickly leaned forward, trying to keep quiet despite all the various emotions that had just crashed over his head in a frothy, white-crested tidal wave. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

Sherlock just looked back at him for a few seconds before nodding quietly.

John felt as if he should reach out, do something-but he wasn't quite sure what. "Are you okay? I mean, I know that's... Stupid question-how are you feeling? Do I need to ask for more morphine or anything?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, like they did when he was thinking, analysing something. His voice was a little raspy, which wasn't unexpected considering all he'd just been through. "Are you alright?"

" _Me?_  Sherlock,  _you're..._ " John searched his face for a hint as to what he could possibly be thinking, but there was none to be found. "Don't worry about me. You're the one in hospital."

_Who was this man, and what had he done with Sherlock Holmes?_

_Since when did Sherlock care about anybody else?_

_Least of all right off the bat, like this?_

_It was a little bit... nice._

_And a little bit worrying, considering._

"Don't be stupid, I only asked because you looked tired." Sherlock looked as if he were contemplating trying to push himself up to a sitting position, but John put a careful restraining hand on his arm, avoiding the stitches.

John didn't say it, but he was thinking it.

_'That's a load of rubbish. Since when have you cared if I was tired or not?'_

"No, stay down. You got yourself all beat up. Again." John sighed and pursed his lips. "Sherlock... what happened in there? Where we found you. It was... I mean, Moriarty... and..."

"He just wanted a little chat."

"And then to shoot you in the back."

"Well, yes, but that came later... after it got boring."


	73. To prove you're clever

_Didn't John understand?_

_He must._

_If not, there was no way Sherlock could express it to him._

_Why he'd done what he had._

When he'd woken there, in the hospital bed, his first thought had been of his blogger.

At the moment he'd been shot he had been thinking of the same.

Thinking of exactly why he  _could not_  kill himself there-because of John, because of what that would do to him, considering the state of him the last time Sherlock had 'died'-and he could not bring himself to do that.

He would never do that to John Watson.

_Never again._

It was an uncomfortable reality, feeling so strongly about the feelings and wellbeing of another person... and in truth it almost scared him.  
For that reason he purposefully did not let himself delve into it any further, and just left it as it was: a reality. A simple fact.

_And John was okay._

Sherlock had made sure of that; he'd asked him, just to be clear, ignoring how out of character that was for him.

It was just a follow-up question.

Nothing more.

John had been surprised.

Of course he had; Sherlock didn't usually bother with those sorts of things, because he could usually tell without asking-and if someone wasn't well, what on earth could he do about it?

He wasn't a doctor.

He wasn't good at comforting.

_So what was the use?_

It would have been a waste of time.

And it changed nothing.

But here in this dull, sterile hospital room, he'd just had to be sure.

"Sherlock...?"

John was looking at him earnestly; he must still not understand what it meant.

"Hm?"

"Tell me. I want to know what happened. I'm your friend-I  _deserve_  to know, at least... Why..."

Sherlock's eyes traveled down John's weary face and to the bandages round his own arms, which he could barely feel.

_He had to tell him._

"He wanted a companion in death."

John just stared at him. Sherlock assumed he must be shocked, probably not having expected those sorts of tendencies from Moriarty, and wondering why on earth he had-

"What?"

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean,  _'what?'_ "

"What are you saying? That he was suicidal and... just wanted you to die with him?"

"That's exactly what I said."

_It must be the shock. Must be slowing John down even further._

"So he shot you... But what about your... Y'know... Your arms...?"

_Surely he didn't think Sherlock had..._

_That would not only have been impossible, but..._

" _I_  didn't do it!" Sherlock caught himself, reeling the calm back in. "He did that after I was down. Presumably for effect. And blood loss, of course."

John was silent.

When at last he spoke, it was quietly, and with a little sigh. "Don't do that again... Please. Don't go running off into situations you must know could be dangerous, just to prove you're clever. I  _know_  you are. It's not worth you dead.  _It's not._ " He forced a little smile. "The world still needs you, you know? I do. I still need you."

* * *

It was raining when Sherlock was finally discharged from hospital.

The sky was a gritty charcoal grey, reflected in the shiny hood of the cab that pulled up to take them back to 221B.

On the steps of the hospital they were met by a familiar, ramrod straight statured figure, his black umbrella unfolded to deflect the dismal little bullets of water sent down from the heavens to splash upon the pavement and the passer-bys, in no particular rhythm.

Sherlock looked up at him, supported only as much as necessary by his blogger, and nodded curtly. " _Mycroft._ "

His brother returned the nod in what normal people might consider a cold fashion-but the unspoken communication between them went a little deeper than just courtesy.

John, however, happened to be said 'normal person.'

He looked from Sherlock to Mycroft and back again, trying to discern what the mood truly was, and wondering if he would end up having to break up another heated discussion.

_Hoping not._

_But wondering._

"I just thought I'd drop by," Mycroft tipped his umbrella slightly so that it covered them as well, clearing his throat. "Just to make it clear that I am not indifferent on the subject of your discharge from hospital. I do, however, find it necessary to remind you how stupid it was of you to go back to that old flat in the first place. Things were bad enough the first time you were there."

Sherlock sneered. "I wouldn't have had to live there if  _you_  hadn't  _cut me off from my inheritance,_  Mycroft."

Mycroft only sighed softly, examining the hand holding the umbrella. "You know why I had to do that, at the time..."

"Clearly it didn't do any good. I just found different ways of obtaining what I needed."

"What you needed was drug rehabilitation."

"And I got it, didn't I?" Sherlock frowned testily, leaning on John slightly more heavily.

" _Eventually._ "

John cleared his throat a bit loudly, glancing between them. "Hey. Raining. Cab waiting. Yeah?"

Both turned their eyes to him, and despite what he could figure from the conversation John felt an acute sense that he was missing out on some greater vein of understanding.

_Oh well..._

* * *

_Bullet wounds took time to heal._

_So did stitches._

_And so did people._

_That took the longest, actually, if ever._

External wounds do heal, though, and John was definitely glad when Sherlock began to be more mobile, wincing less, and was able to cut back on the pain medication he'd been on.

At last Lestrade was able to make a visit, taking time off work to stop by and see how the consulting detective was doing. He'd come by once before, but Sherlock had been sprawled on his bed, at least pretending to be asleep.

John got the door, pleasantly surprised to see Greg there, and ushered him inside.

"I'm not sure if he's up this time-I'll go check. He's been doing better, actually. You can have a seat, if-"

He was interrupted by the consulting detective's door swinging open and Sherlock stalking out, pausing when he saw them. He must not have expected company today.

Lestrade moved toward him, looking him up and down, and John could practically read every word of surprise on Sherlock's face as Lestrade swung his arm around his neck and pulled him close in a hug, muttering, "You bastard..."

Sherlock looked uncomfortable and squished, but held still with a resigned half-smile on his face, as if he'd rather expected something like this.

It seemed rather to say  _'I-what the-er... Oh... Okay... Right... If you must...'_

He reminded John a bit of a cat that would rather not be embraced quite so tightly.

No... it was more that he didn't appear to know what to do, and considered the gesture as some strange alien habit to be endured.

_Hugs: another item added to the list of things that you really can't do by yourself._


	74. This, of all things

It had been inevitable.

John hadn't been able to stop him.

_Sherlock Holmes could not resist a case._

And so, when he found out that the Yard was wrestling with a new one-who knew how he did-he had insisted on paying them a visit, if only to see if it was  _fantastic_  enough. Normally he would have waited for them to 'come crawling' to him with it, but he must have known that they would still be hesitant to involve him for fear that he was not yet in hardy enough condition to withstand a case.

_Of course, he probably wasn't._

_But that had never stopped him before._

Despite John's warnings, pleas, and forbidding, Sherlock had buttoned up his dress shirt and slipped on his coat. His movements were still careful, in order not to cause any inadvertent pain here and there, and it hurt John to watch.

Because he knew Sherlock wasn't quite careful enough.

_But he wouldn't show it._

In the end John was forced to put on his shoes and join him, because short of chaining the detective down and throwing away the key, there wasn't all that much he could do to stop him.

Sherlock seemed delighted to finally be free of the flat and out in the frosty evening air, their breaths like smoke in the coming dark and their footsteps ringing clear against the frozen pavement. A sort of in-between expectancy hung in the air, following the groups of rowdy young people as they traversed the long streets from club to club, or bar to bar.

But by the dull golden glow of the street lamps, John could tell that Sherlock was truly even more intoxicated than they were.

_Drunk on the possibility of a case._

_High off the prospect of a new danger._

John could only sigh quietly and repress a small smile. Somehow, regardless of the inherent risk of taking on a case in this condition, seeing Sherlock so full of excitement and life filled him with... something. Something warm, that dissipated the cold night's chills and made him think that maybe- _just maybe_ -this wasn't such a horrible idea after all.

That notion was soon wrecked like a doomed ship on the jagged, perilous reef of Lestrade's case description.

_Dangerous._

_Double homicide._

_Killer on the loose._

_Probably very physically demanding._

That would be a  _ **no**_  from John.

Not until the consulting detective was completely healed and able to go dashing across London at a moment's notice, which, right now, would be entirely out of the question. And much to Sherlock's chagrin, Lestrade agreed.

Sherlock sighed loudly in aggravation, looking from one to the other, sharp eyes searching for any crack in their resolve or loophole in their reasoning.

"Oh,  _come on._ " He rolled his eyes, even more vexed at finding none. "You can't possibly think I'd allow you to treat me like a five year old. This is  _ridiculous._ "

"Sherlock... I'm...  _we're_  just looking out for your well-being." John tried to sound soothing. "This case would be dangerous. It would take a lot out of you. Remember how grouchy you get when you're tired? I don't want to have to deal with that crap again."

"It's not  _that_  bad!"

" _Uh..._ " John just gave him a telling look, raising his eyebrows.

Secretly John was thankful to Lestrade for backing him up. He wasn't sure if he alone could have been enough to hold Sherlock back in his eagerness.

"Look, Sherlock," Lestrade caught his attention as he turned. "He's right. This wouldn't be a good idea for any of us, no matter how much I'd love to have a hand with this one. You know how this goes. Yeah? You know what happens. You'd end up hurt."

Sherlock's eyes flashed, and he wrenched up his left sleeve and held out his exposed arm, still criss-crossed with the healing scars from Moriarty's vengeance and underlined with the red and white reminders of bad days gone by. He set his jaw with indignation and directed a hard gaze at Lestrade.

" _You think I'm not strong enough to get past that?!_  You should know-I can beat  _anything!_  This, of all things, would be no problem for me! You know what I can endure. I'm stronger than your stupid _'danger.'_  Why stop me if you so  _desperately_  need my help?!"

Lestrade's mouth was hanging open slightly, but he seemed too distracted to realise and shut it.

John, too, swallowed hard, staring at his flatmate without knowing quite what to say.

_No, Sherlock..._

_No..._

Both were saved from their speechlessness as the door opened and Sally Donovan started in. She stopped short at the sight of them.

John could watch her eyes gravitate directly to Sherlock's uncovered forearm in a split-second.

_Sherlock saw it too._

Behind the mask, he looked like he might be sick.


	75. Back in a minute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just fair warning, this chapter might be triggering. Late warning, probably, as they all might be, but I'm thinking about it now so I'll put it up.

_It consumes your waking mind._

_The thought crawls down your brain stem and out into your skin, making your wrists itch and ache like mad, and you know exactly what would make it stop._

_You know just what it needs you to do._

_You know your body is pleading for you to destroy it._

_And you know you **want to.**_

_Even if you've decided you'll say no, when the wave hits all other thoughts become less important, less real. You begin trying to reason with your logical mind, to squirm out from under your previous decision against it._

It wouldn't be that bad...

It's just one more time...

I deserve it...

It would help me relax...

I need to get this out of the way so I can focus...

_There are endless excuses. And at the time they all seem reasonable enough. If the need is bad enough, even a good counter-argument won't hold any water for you._

_You just need that sweet, stinging burn._

_The comfort._

_The resolution._

_The peace._

_The sanity._

_The **adrenaline.**_

_You find yourself taking out your tools, looking them over, feeling them, waiting-perhaps in hopes that the need will pass. But it doesn't, and somehow you are grateful that it hasn't._

_Like an old friend hasn't left you after all._

_Maybe the first time you slide the blade across the skin you're not really completely serious. It doesn't hurt, and there's hardly any blood._

_But that light swipe brings back the memories of last time, hard-and the sight of that little blood makes something in your brain light up like burning gunpowder._

_And then you're caught. Then you can finally breathe._

_Then you press a little harder, bleed a little darker, hurt a little sharper... And before you know it, you've done just what you said you wouldn't do again. Your heart is beating harder, the back of your neck prickles..._

_And the guilt sets in._

'What have I done...?'

_Your hand shakes a little as you wipe the blood off your blade. It all seems so obviously wrong now-why did it seem okay ten minutes ago? Why did you let yourself do that?_

_You're disappointed, guilty, disgusted... But at the same time, the blood is pretty._

_That_ did _feel nice._

 _You_ are _calmer now._

_Not as distracted._

_And in some sick, twisted way, you're impressed with yourself for going as deep as you did. Horrified, but impressed._

_The whole thing is confusing enough to make anybody feel ill._

_And you can't seem to stop the cycle._

* * *

Sally's eyes seemed to bore holes in Sherlock's arm, even after he quickly pulled his sleeve back down and squared his shoulders. She was just as speechless as the rest of them. But at the same time, something in her stare communicated a deep fascination.

_The way drivers are fascinated by a horrible, mangled traffic accident._

_The way they can't stop looking._

But Sherlock was not a mangled accident, and he did not deserve to be looked at that way.

John felt he should say something.

_But **what?**_

He opened his mouth-but was caught off guard as Sherlock spoke instead, his voice surprisingly even and unaffected.

"Do you have a reason to be here, or are you just gawking? If you didn't notice, we were having a discussion. Whatever you need can wait."

Sally heard him.

She just didn't react for a moment.

Perhaps she was still processing the image of all those lines across his skin, as if each one were screaming at her. Each one an explanation in itself.

"D'you..." She still hadn't removed those prying eyes from him. "D'you  _cut yourself_  or something?"

"No, I have boxing matches with rosebushes.  _Get out._ "

She probably would have stayed, had Lestrade not given her a quiet verbal nudge toward the door.

_Sherlock was extraordinarily silent after she'd gone._

A sort of silence that wasn't quite usual for him, and John could only imagine what might be going on inside his head.

"Sherlock..." John glanced at Lestrade, who was also casting glances between them, apparently at a loss as to how to be comforting. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

_Something clicked._

_The consulting detective was back._

_He was fine, and everything was normal, and maybe all that hadn't even happened._

"Yes, of course I'm alright. I'm always alright. You two keep talking, I'll be back in a minute." 


	76. Ever

_A tumultuous, chaotic cyclone of thought._

That's what was going on in Sherlock's skull.

And yet none of it passed that iron barrier between inside and out; no whisper past his lips, not even a twitch of an emotion.

_He couldn't let it._

_It just wouldn't._

But he did feel it-and after a while the storm trapped inside begins to beat so hard against the walls of its human prison that it can feel as if your heart will stop, if it doesn't explode first.

That was a familiar feeling.

_That was a reason for the scars._

Making them had helped to calm the mind, to quell the unending business of feeling. But now he regretted them more than he ever had before-because they meant something. They were visible, and anyone who saw them knew of his reasons, and the battles he fought.

But they didn't  _understand._

The scars meant he was weak. They showed that he was human.

Somehow that felt disgusting.

Disgusting because it made him feel... fear.

Fear because people didn't want to see him as a human being. That would mean he needed things, and people didn't like that from him. He was supposed to be completely self-sufficient, highly-functioning,  _better,_  an incredible, mechanised mind that people stood in awe of and otherwise ignored.

Not somebody they had to reassure, and believe they had to give all the same attentions to as they did everyone else in their lives.

He didn't want that.

_Didn't need it._

It was best avoided.

So now, when Donovan- _Donovan, of all people_ -had seen his scars, he could feel the cold wash of shame in the pit of his stomach.

With her, it was different. She disliked him, made it a point to insult him-and so naturally he had retaliated in kind.

And he had found that to be rather fun.

Because he had held a power over her: his skill, and with that his cold pride.

That same pride that he could probably never fully recover again, because when she looked at him now all she would see was human weakness.

That wasn't intimidating at all.

He shook his head to try to clear it, finally looking up to see where his steps had taken him.

_The washroom?_

Okay, he could work with that... He did feel a bit sick to his stomach, anyway.

He knew he wouldn't really vomit-it was just the adrenaline making him feel ill.

It would pass in a while.

Sherlock paused by the sinks for a long moment, staring down at his hands.

_Stupid..._

**_STUPID-_ **

He tried to hold still for another second or so, before giving in and delivering a sharp kick to the baseboard.

_Calm._

_There was really no reason to feel like this._

_It was all in his head._

_He could work around it._

_What did Donovan matter, anyway?_

He took a soft breath, but he could feel that jagged chill creeping right back in, and that sick feeling taking hold again.

Inner calm didn't last long.

He stood there, and eventually rolled up one of his sleeves to look over the damage.

It was bad. He knew that. It was intrinsically bad, regardless of how many scars there were. Although there were, indeed, quite a few. And all he could think was that he wished he had chosen a more inconspicuous spot to do it, rather than his arms.

Granted, there had been times when the lines had migrated down across his ribs, hips, and legs, too, but the majority lay on his upper and forearms.

And they were't going away.

_Ever._

Sherlock had made peace with them, except when it came to what they meant to other people. That was a whole different story.

He backed away from the sinks, straightening his collar and dropping his sleeve again.

They'd wonder where he was.

Sherlock avoided glancing in the mirrors as he crossed the room to the door. He had barely taken a few steps down the hall before he heard the horrible clack of those heels on the floor, and felt a light chill snake down his shoulders.

He was over-reacting, inwardly.

Wasn't he?

Of course, he  _would_  meet her in the hall. It  _would_  be her. Right  _now._

_Because why the hell not?_

"Hey."

He ignored her, and kept walking. Not interested in whatever it was she wanted to say.

"Hey, I'm talking to you! You don't have to be a dick. Hey! Frea-Sherlock!"

He stopped abruptly. " _...Don't do that._ "

"Do what?"

" _That._  Think you have to dance around gingerly. Just say it. I know whose bed you slept in last night-don't think I'll be holding back either."

Donovan hesitated, looking a little surprised.

She cleared her throat. "So you do, then? You...  _y'know..._ "

Something was screaming at him inside Sherlock's skull as her eyes went to his arms, but he just scoffed nonchalantly.

"I hardly think that's any of your business. Nor would it make any difference to you, as it's not illegal, and doesn't effect anyone close to you."

_He would have said no._

_He would have given anything to be able to deny it, but she'd already seen the evidence. More scars than Moriarty could have left. Older ones._

_She already knew._

"Why?"

The simple little question caught him rather off guard, because all at once he wasn't sure. There wasn't any clear-cut reason he could give anymore, and even if there was he probably wouldn't have wanted to tell her.

"I..."

She was staring at him a little too interestedly. "Are you depressed or something?"

" _No!_ " God, how he wished she'd back off... "Just stop talking, before you make yourself look like even more of an idiot."

_Why wasn't it working?_

_She looked annoyed, yes, but still morbidly curious._

_Why wouldn't she just go away...?_

"So they're for attention, then. That's why people do it, right? Solving cases not enough for you anymore?"

Even the scream in his head was silenced.

_...What?_

Sherlock just stared at her, unable to come up with a reply suitably scathing enough to knock the stupid out of her.

_Attention?_

That was the absolute  _last_  thing he wanted.

How could she...?

She must be joking.

_Must be..._

"What did I say about talking?" He kept his voice even, and hoped she wouldn't notice the set of his jaw or the fact that he was hardly breathing.

_He couldn't help it._

People like her roused a demon inside him, giving him reason to be furious, their words only throwing petrol on the flames.

_This._

_This was one emotion he did not have trouble showing._

Donovan frowned. "Sorry. I'm just curious. But don't you think it's a bit... well... selfish?"

"Oh  _please._  As if you expected anything else."

"No, really. Do you just not give a damn about the people who care about you or something? Because that's kind of low, even for you."

Sherlock almost laughed out loud, harsh and humourless. " _I would have._  If those people existed."

"What about John?"

He paused.

_Yes..._

_What about John...?_


	77. Bad things

_What about John?_

_What about him?_

The same thought tumbled over and over in Sherlock's mind in the following days like an animal caught in a trap. He went over it again and again, sounding out the words, applying meanings, related words, definitions, applications, possibilities, conjectures, hypothetical situations, variable details-and yet he could not come to any satisfying conclusion.

 _Was_  it selfish of him?

...if John cared?

If John cared, was Sherlock then doing something horrible and unforgivable by still wanting to hurt himself? How could that be, if it had all began long before John had even entered the picture? After that first time, it was more than difficult to stop. And after so many years...

And yet, Sherlock ought to have absolute, unyielding control over himself. If that were true then he ought to be able to just  _stop._

Cold turkey.

Right?

 _So why was it so hard?_  He cringed to think that maybe he was powerless in the face of something that should have been completely under his control. It was all self-inflicted.

Why couldn't he  _stop wanting it?_

**Addiction:**

_Main Entry: ad·dic·tion_

_Pronunciation: \ə-ˈdik-shən, a-\_

_Function: noun_

_Date: 1599_

_1 : the quality or state of being addicted addiction to reading (or self-injury) 2 : compulsive need for and use of a habit-forming substance (as heroin, nicotine, or alcohol) characterized by tolerance and by well-defined physiological symptoms upon withdrawal ; broadly : persistent compulsive use of a substance known by the user to be harmful._

Sherlock frowned quietly to himself. He'd faced other addictions before, and subsequently beat them, with some difficulty.

This should not be any different. Therefore he could claim no logical excuse.

**Unwilling:**

_Main Entry: un·will·ing_

_Pronunciation: \\-ˈwi-liŋ\_

_Function: adjective_

_Date: before 12th century_

_: not willing: a : loath, reluctant was unwilling to learn b : done or given reluctantly unwilling approval c : offering opposition : obstinate: an unwilling student_

This must be his stumbling block.

It  _WAS_  his fault. It  _WAS_  selfish of him. And therefore...

Sherlock shifted from his position on the sofa and twisted about carefully to glance at John, who was typing away on his laptop, obliviously busy.

_He must hate him..._

How could Sherlock have been blind to this?

 _Self correction:_ he had not been blind, he had been unwilling to face the whole truth because of what it meant.

Because he'd been afraid of that.

_-No, afraid was a hateful word._

_Substitution..._

_'Adverse.'_

He'd been  _adverse_  to what that meant.

And even if Sherlock had been clean from his bloody little addiction for the past two months and 12 days, that meant nothing. Wasn't good enough. Wasn't enough to wash away the guilt that already lay on him like a heavy layer of toxic sediment. And everyone could see it.

Everyone knew just how heartless he was.

What a failure of a friend he continued to be.

Normally it wouldn't have bothered him that people thought he didn't have a heart, that he was cold and unfeeling-but for some reason he now felt a pang of something... an urge to prove wrong anyone who thought Sherlock Holmes couldn't care less about his blogger.

 _Of course_  he did.

_Of course..._

John was  _his_  blogger, assistant, and best friend. To be perfectly clear.  _His._

And Sherlock would not allow  _anything_  to happen to that. If that meant becoming painfully aware of his own most recent faults and short-comings in order to face them head-on and to mend them, then so be it.

He could take it.

Sherlock sat there for a long time, watching John work, half-attempting to read his focussed expression while at the same time not bothering to put on any sort of smile or untroubled mien; it didn't matter.

John wasn't looking at him.

Eventually, finding no success in reading John's inner thoughts, he sighed quietly and lay back again. Even if he couldn't see it directly, he knew it must be there.

Hatred? Anger. Disappointment. Frustration. Pity.

_Bad things._

He supposed that this was the sort of time normal people took to say 'sorry.'

But a simple word didn't seem to fit. It didn't seem to be anywhere close to enough to atone for Sherlock's mistakes. How that useless practice came to be commonplace in society was beyond him.

A word wouldn't fix anything.

All it could ever do was represent the idea that perhaps the apologetic party was beginning to feel vaguely remorseful for his actions-not that he had any intention of or plan to actually  _do_  anything about it.

_Stupid._

But he really did. So saying it wouldn't be necessary. John would know.

Sherlock would make sure of that.

How, he wasn't exactly sure. But somehow he would.

Regardless, it was his fault he was in this mess in the first place, and that he had something to feel guilty about.

It pressed in on his chest like ten pound weights; it gripped at his shoulders and threatened to drag him down through the floorboards into its soot-lined lair; it dragged its icy fingertips over his old scars and made them tingle with...

Anticipation?

No...

_**NO...** _

Please no... not right now... not back to this again...

It was just like it used to be.

John in his armchair, busy and oblivious, and Sherlock on the sofa, fighting that painful longing all over again.

He couldn't...

This could not be happening.

Not so soon after he'd determined to fix what he'd messed up. To give in would be... That is, he would...

He was aware that he was stressing, and that perhaps that in turn would be a trigger to him-but he couldn't back down from what he had to do. He couldn't give up.

He couldn't just say  _sorry_  and hope for the best. He had to  _do_  something.

Anything that happened was and would be his own fault, completely, plain and simple.

**Idiot:**

_Main Entry: id·i·ot_

_Pronunciation: \ˈi-dē-ət\_

_Function: noun_

_Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French ydiote, from Latin idiota ignorant person, from Greek idiōtēs one in a private station, layman, ignorant person, from idios one's own, private._

_Date: 14th century_

_:1 usually offensive : a person affected with extreme mental retardation 2 : a foolish or stupid person_


	78. Better reasons

" ** _Sherlock._** "

He started, flinching out of his reverie and looking up to find John staring straight at him, laptop set aside.

"Hm?"

"I've said your name three times, now. Are you okay?"

"Mm..." He nodded slowly. "I was just thinking."

"About what?"

Sherlock was vaguely unsettled by the way John was looking at him now, and it didn't seem as if he were going to stop pursuing the subject.

_What to say?_

"Cases. I was... going back over information."

"No..."  _Why was John shaking his head like that?_  "No, you weren't going over cases. Sherlock, you looked  _sad._ "

Sherlock's lips parted, but he had no words. After a moment more of regarding John with an intense gaze he averted his eyes, gears spinning in his skull without finding any traction.

_He'd been distracted..._

_What to say... what to **say...?**_

"D'you want me to ask again?  _Hm?_ " John pressed his lips together and gave him a searching look. " _Are you okay?_ "

_Maybe..._

_If he just said-_

_If he just told him-_

_But he couldn't say..._

Sherlock drew in a quiet breath and held it for a second, aware that his voice was going to sound tired and low. Finally he glanced up at John.

"...No."

* * *

This was not  _at all_  like it used to be.

Nothing  _remotely_  like the oblivious John of only a few years ago.

This was vastly different.

Not okay.

_No._

As soon as the word had fallen from his lips Sherlock felt as if he were suddenly laid completely bare, defenseless, exposed and human. And with that a frigid burst of panic flooded his veins.

_Why had he said that?!_

He could no longer bear to sit still, and instead leapt up from the sofa and crossed the room in three steps, beginning to pace his familiar track from the sofa to the window and back again. He was half convinced that if he stopped moving his hands would start shaking, and then John would see the extent of it, then he would  _know_ -

"Sherlock.  _Sherlock,_  can you stop? Hey!  _Talk to me._ " John had stood up as well, and was following his movements with a concerned yet confused look.

He wouldn't get it.

_Of course he wouldn't get it._

It was beginning to worry Sherlock that the rising chill in his blood hadn't dissipated; in fact, it continued to do just that-spreading up into his chest to send frost creeping into his heart and making it skip and jump like a careless schoolkid knocking against his ribs.

_It wouldn't stop._

And it was getting harder to breathe.

His teeth were clenched so hard it almost hurt, and his muscles felt tight. It was a little like the rush he got on a good case-only this wasn't nice.

Wasn't okay.

It was a horrifically helpless feeling-utterly out of control.

Wrong,  _wrong, **wrong...**_

_Not this again-_

Control,  _control, **control-**_

_Like his own thoughts were killing him._

A hand closed around his arm, and at first he recoiled and tried to jerk away-but when he looked up John caught his eye and, at least momentarily, everything stilled.

_John was there._

_Still there._

_He still had his blogger._

_John cared._

"Sherlock-what's going on? ...Are you high?"

He shook his head vehemently, slightly hurt at the idea, considering his situation, but aware of what it must look like all the same.

He  _wished_  he were high.

_This was hell._

The only thing to do now was to pretend it wasn't happening.

He gathered every remaining wit at his disposal and forced out a laugh; it sounded... nervous.

_Damn._

"I'm fine, John, don't be an  _idiot._  I meant 'no' as in... not... That is, em..."

_Brain, don't fail me now..._

"Sit. Now." John's tone was commanding, and although he tugged the detective down toward the floor by the arm, Sherlock barely needed the direction.

He was already beginning to feel a wash of fatigue overtake him, as if he'd been fighting for days on end and only now stopped for a rest. Perhaps he had been, in a way.

He sank to the floor beside the sofa, and John followed suit, kneeling on the carpet and not letting go of his arm. "Talk to me. Look, have you...  _'done'_  anything? At all? You know...?"

Sherlock shook his head again. " _No..._ "

The doctor looked reassured, but still worried. He was obviously perturbed by such out of character behaviour.

Sherlock sat up a bit straighter, squaring his shoulders and letting out a soft sigh. "I'm just... very, very tired. That's all. Tired."

"Okay... tired, and what else? Are you... I don't know... stressed about something?"

"I said I was just tired, John!"

"Alright, alright..." He held up his hands in surrender. "It's just that... most people have better reasons for having breakdowns."

"I'm not having a breakdown!"

" _Sherlock._ "

He looked up at him again, tense and accusing.

"You're  _shaking._ "


	79. An Unfamiliar Feeling

"Of course I'm shaking—" Sherlock did his best to hold as still as possible, both in voice and body. "That'll be the fatigue—but I'm fine otherwise. Fine."

"Uh huh..." John didn't look at all convinced, and hadn't let go of his arm.

The sun outside the windows was beginning to sink, casting the living room in a mass of sunset shadows which, at any other time, Sherlock would have found rather comfortable.

But right now, there was no such thing.

_Comfort didn't exist._

There was only cold blood and pounding heart and rebelling nerves.

The more he tried to force himself to calm down, to regain control of his transport, the more he found that it seemed an impossible task, and all that did was send another rush of ice through his veins.

This was such an unfamiliar feeling.

And it was honestly terrifying.

To feel so  _out of control..._

"Hey." John was speaking again. "Hey, look at me. Just listen. Okay? Calm down."

Yeah,  _as if it were that easy..._

It was at that point that it began to seep in through the cracks. Hot and cold, sharp and aching, wordless and screaming, altogether too much.

The feelings he tried to suppress kept coming up, as if in this moment they overflowed their cages and drowned him in his own blood. Every nerve in his transport shrieked for solitude, for silent escape from eyes, from everything—and he found he was holding his breath, unable to will himself to let it out.

All this, and there was nothing he could do.

His body refused to release any of the storm—it was as if he had no tears, as if his body had forgotten how to cry.

So it was trapped there. He was stuck with it. There was no way he could relieve the seething, stabbing...  _thing._

_The emotion._

It was a creature itself, that took over him and held on, getting in the way and driving him to do stupid things to make it leave, if only for a while.

But not even those stupid things would help now, now that it was all—

Sherlock's eyes widened as he found himself drawn in close, his cheek pressed awkwardly against John's ear as the doctor wrapped his arms round him in what was supposed to be a comforting hug.

And as much as Sherlock's instinct wanted him to pull away, to escape—he didn't.

Because for once the feeling of another human being... made it okay.

For once the warmth of somebody else was reassuring, and not just a physical fact. It didn't quell the entire storm-not really-but it helped to melt the ice in his blood. It relaxed his muscles enough to let him exhale, though his heart still thudded in his chest.

John didn't let go, and for once Sherlock let himself be held, there on the living room carpet, in the dark.

He had to.

It didn't have to mean anything. Right then, it meant everything.

Because, for once, he didn't have to control everything. He could relax a little.

Sherlock shut his eyes to match the dark, glad no one had to see the single tear that traced his cheek.

_Still an unfamiliar feeling._

_But... maybe comfort_  did _exist._


End file.
